The Art of Dreaming
by Liriel-eris
Summary: sequel to Semblance: When the sands begin to shift, nothing remains unchanged, and nothing is what it seems. Hero, Erik and their willing and not-so-willing allies face new dangers and webs of intrigue while trying not to get tangled in them themselves.
1. hearing is believing pt 1

**The art of dreaming**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom! **

**A/N **: Hey everyone! I'm supposed to be writing a history paper so naturally I'm back with the promised sequel! Does this mean the punjabbing attempts get called off?  Do forgive the delay, but I got a virus on the laptop, and fanfiction wouldn't load for weeks and then real life intruded so….

Wow…who would've thought when I started Chapter One of Semblance that I'd ever get to the sequel? But here we are, bright eyed and bushy tailed cough erm…yeah, anyway. Lol. I'd give more hints about what will happen, but that would be redundant, because like its predecessor, its unlikely this story will go where I mean for it to. But like I've already said, think Persia! The Gang! New pairings! Christine might even be saner this time round…or not. Oh! And have I mentioned fop torture?

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Semblance, and to everyone who is reading this new story.

So as not to disturb anyone, I do actually think porcelain dolls are extremely creepy and would never get near one, but Natalie seems to have a mind of her own, so…

Well, enjoy! And be sure to share any advice, suggestions, criticism, etc with me. Given the mercurial nature of the story, I'm open to suggestions.

BTW on account of the first chapter being 'round 20 pages long, I've decided to split it. Pt 2 will be up soon, featuring Erik being a bit touchy!insane and Christine being….Christine

Liriel

Now, to set the scene……

**Chapter 1: Hearing is believing : part 1**

Hero walked through the bustle of the Palais Garnier, nodding her greeting to the few staff members she recognized, until she entered into an unoccupied orchestra rehearsal room. It smelled of fresh floor polish and new furniture. She made her way past the chairs set out for the wind instruments, her shoes making her footsteps echo across the bare walls, clicking sharply, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the room.

She held the flower lightly in her hand and wore her lips in a smirk at the memory of Meg's expression. Hero had, after more or less recovering from her face-off against the Illuminati, come back to the Garnier, eager to inform the Rats of her safe return and pass on to Meg a note Andrew had begged her deliver. In the middle of an idle conversation with Meg, who was busy tying up the silky white ribbons of her well-used pointe shoes, a rose dropped from somewhere high in the beams of the ceiling. A cream envelope followed it. Meg looked up, face draining of colour, and watched in voiceless horror as Hero picked up the flower, running the black ribbon through her pale hand.

Then, she laughed ironically, briefly glancing up at the ceiling and seeing nothing but shadows.

Meg watched the other girl, barely daring to breath, dark eyes wide as she wondered at what new horror the Opera Ghost had cooked up for them. Sometimes she felt they really were, all of them, rats scurrying this way and that in his maze. She could well remember the tale Roux, the stable hand, had told one night about the laboratories his cousin worked at. The horrible experiments performed upon the squealing, squirming rodents because they were expendable. Nobody had thought anything of it, Roux had explained, it was alright to kill a rat. She shivered again at the memory, like she had done that night, and tried not to think of sharp squeals and bright eyes.

Nothing good would come from that envelope. Turning her attention back towards the ballerina, Hero opened her mouth to speak, but Meg interrupted.

"Hero! Say nothing of _It_!" She hissed, just as Germaine and Jammes came into the room.

"Hero! Fancy seeing you again! Where ever did you…"

Catching the amusement on Hero's face and the mute terror still evident on Meg's they hurried closer.

"What is it?" Germaine demanded, As Jammes' dark eyes spotted the flower clutched in Hero's hand, the ribbon covered by her fingers.

"Is that a rose?! Why, just look at the elegant, long stem, the perfect petals!" She leaned in for closer inspection, "What lovely colour it has. This flower must have cost a pretty penny!"

The Rats were expert at recognizing quality gifts when they saw them.

"Have you an admirer at last?" Germaine demanded, with the single-mindedness signature to the _Corps de Ballet_, "And whatever is the matter with little Meg?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes. It is from an admirer." Hero grinned widely, deciding to play along "Meg is simply outraged that I have said naught of it till now." She gave Meg a meaningful look.

"Well!" the smallest ballerina squealed, "So are we! Aren't we, Germaine?"

"Yes!Yes! Indeed we are! That violates every rule of friendship in our little circle! You must do penance, and tell us everything over lunch tomorrow!"

"How about that wonderful place where Hero bought those _éclairs_, remember?"

"Oh, yes! There."

"And you must tell us how Sir Andrew is doing!" Meg joined in, reassured for a moment, by Hero's lightheartedness on the matter of the flower and the thought of her dashing friend. She hurriedly stuffed the note he'd sent down her bodice, but the other two noticed, and badgered her about it. Hero made her excuses when they invited her to watch their practice, sending her regards to the other Rats and the Ballet Mistress.

OOOO

On her way at last, marching straight towards one of the hidden trapdoors, Hero didn't hesitate before lowering herself through it. She grinned smugly as she walked into the darkness, not caring that her skirts were gathering dust from the unwept passage and raising it in a cloud behind her.

The tunnels were as dark and treacherous as ever. Hero found it to her liking, being in a roguish mood. As she made her way deeper into the tunnels, ignoring the scurrying rats of the non-dancing variety, a voice resounded through the gloom.

"_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_…"It whispered in her ear, though she could feel neither breath nor presence behind her. The voice faded and again she could hear nothing but the steady dripping of water somewhere in the darkness.

Stopping in her tracks Hero blinked into the gloom, though she saw nothing. She could have sworn she heard a faint titter somewhere behind her, but there was no way of being sure.

Snorting loudly, she continued on her way. As far as Hero was concerned, 'helpless' was not a description that was applicable to her. And 'lost' was a state of mind, not direction. She informed Erik of just that upon arrival into the lair, as she swept imperiously past him, before he yanked her back into his arms. Of course, he claimed ignorance of what she could have possibly been talking about, but his eyes glinted with slightly malicious humour. Given his current chaotic mood, it was unfortunate that she was in the right set of mind to bait him. Brazenly, Hero leaned back into his arms…

**OOOO**

Hero looked suspiciously at the light golden tea in the white porcelain tea cup, wondering if the ballet rats managed to add some choice liquor into her drink and their own while she wasn't looking. She could smell nothing untoward over the strong citrus scent, rising from the hot cup, though a laced drink would certainly account for the volume of giggling surrounding her, and rising by the second.

"So who is he? Not one of those friends of yours certainly!" Vivienne stage whispered for the benefit of the rest of the café. They sat at one of the little wicker tables set out outside the bakery, enjoying the bright day and ignoring the disapproving glances some of the other patrons shot the rowdy lot.

"And he must work at the Opera! Or is he a patron? Do we know him?!" Hushed, they stared at her eagerly.

The Opera staff consisted of over three thousand. Enough to populate a small town. Hero wouldn't have put it past the Rats to know everyone of those three hundred.

"It's possible..." Hero admitted vaguely, and Vivienne gave a delighted gasp, earning them further disapproving looks. Hero gave up. Another round of squeals followed.

"So there really _is_ a gentleman this time." Vivienne concluded for effect's sake.

"Yes, yes."

"Well, who is he?! We want to see him! Is he handsome? Rich? Has he a title?! We really have to see him, Hero!"

"Yes. We do indeed." Meg interrupted for reasons that Hero felt were a lot heavier than Vivienne's, then Meg's voice brightened up, "And that friend of yours too. How is Sir Andrew?"

Hero fidgeted with her teaspoon. _Poor Meg_, she thought, looking up at the ballet rat at last, "Did he not say in his letter to you? Dear Meg. He leaves for Spain tomorrow noon."

Hero watched the other girl's pale face fall and wondered if Andrew had any idea what he was playing at. Then something occurred to her, "But fear not. He will be back in England before the coming month is out. For my mother's annual soiree." She smiled at her new friends, "I will be happy to have any of you that are able to come! The more the merrier." She gave a little laugh to keep from wincing at the memory of last year's three day festivity.

The rats exchanged meaningful looks, already mentally calculating how many unwed members of the Landed Gentry such a soiree would entail.

**OOOOO**

"…it's all the leaping-about they do. Surely as not it must scramble what little brain they had to begin with! You must stop your associations with those unbearable creatures!" Erik told Hero when she was back in the lair, lounging insolently on his chaise. The girl seemed to think his grudging acceptance of her brazen presence was incentive to push the boundaries of his brittle hospitality.

She pointedly ignored Erik's poor opinion of her friends.

"Meg figured out my relations with you yesterday, have I told you? Well, she did. Part of them at least." She looked up at him then, amusement coloring her voice, "It was the rose, if you want to know, that was the deciding clue." The girl paused to smirk for a moment, then went on, "I must commend you on your subtlety. The ribbon in particular had even myself at sea. Incidentally what was purpose of the empty envelope with my name on it?"

Hero had known that Erik's aim had been, at least in part, to scare Meg.

She watched fury flash across his mask-less face, deep-set yellow eyes flaring, skin taught with the sudden rage "She will not hold that knowledge for long…" He began, voice dangerous. Hero raised an eyebrow and went on watching him steadily.

"Won't she? And why is that Erik?"

He shot the girl a warning glare, "You know _what_ I am, Hero, and the value of discretion! I will not have another mob in here…"

As she watched him look around for something, she wondered if he kept a spare lasso around the lair. Squirreled away somewhere. It would be so very like Erik, she mused, certain that her did.

"And you mean to teach Meg the better part of valor?" She sighed impatiently, still not bothering to rise.

"My friends are terrible gossips." Hero informed the Phantom, trying to suppress the sudden laughter bubbling inside her, while shrugging unconcernedly, "But they don't mean any harm. And who will believe them, if they were to speak of it? This tale ought to be as colorful as the one spread about Sorelli's midnight waltzes with the ghost of Phillippe. The clandestine romance of the former runner girl and Opera Ghost? No…not clandestine romance. Far too eloquent, don't you think? How would one of those books Germaine indulges in tell it..." She paused thoughtfully for a moment, while the Phantom seethed, trying to remember why he shouldn't wring her insolent little neck and how he had managed not to as yet.

"Ah! I know! Saucy ardor, perhaps, or illicit passion?" Now she was chuckling, imagine the silly rumors spread. "Why, _monsieur_, my reputation will be in tatters!"

Erik snarled at her, finding her habit of making light of his threats far beyond irritating.

Cutting off whatever ridiculous thing she meant to say next, he rounded on her, "And, _mademoiselle_, you would do well to curb your _sarcasm_ or you will find much more than your reputation in tatters."

Before he could begin another manic rant, Hero interrupted by proposing an idea that had been brewing on her mind since she realized how near the Winterwood soiree was drawing.

"You wish me to accompany you?" Erik demanded, trying to stare the girl down. He had decided to dismiss the matter of her acid tongue and appalling conduct for the moment.

Hero didn't balk, aware of his antisocial habits, she had known her request was not an easy one for him, but she was hoping to break Erik out of his self-imposed exile from the rest of humanity. Noting her lack of favorable reaction, he kept on pacing.

"Well, yes. Really, Erik it isn't so _outrageous_ a request!"

"Isn't it? You know how I loathe such gatherings! Any gatherings! To what end would you have me there, _my dear_? To be presented as your paramour before a gaggle of society fops?! Or perhaps as your curio acquisition lately from the circus show-grounds?"

She glared at him from the chaise, before a thought occurred to her.

"The circus?" She asked, puzzled.

His tone had darkened further on that note. Yellow eyes narrowed murderously, "That… is none of your concern! Forget it! The past is mine to be buried with."

"Must we speak in death analogies again?" frowning Hero finalyl rose off the couch to walk up to the Phantom who was in the process of turning his back on her, fists clenched. The girl noticed the tense line of his thin back.

Her humor evaporated.

"Erik, what is it that you hold s guarded within you? I _do_ want to know. I can see it eating at you. Whatever it is, I would hear it. Nightmares have a way of fading when spoke aloud." She whispered watching him carefully, knowing full well he'd hear her. He didn't speak.

Knowing that she would wait him out, Hero shook her head, "Very well, keep your secrets as long as you may. But you have to accompany me home all the same. The soiree will be unpleasant enough without Mother throwing 'eligible gentlemen' at me. If you are not there then I might have to yield to her wishes and pretend to be taken with a couple of them."

"And how would you go about doing that?" The deceptive whisper of his voice brushed her ear, his anger forgotten. Yet again, shadows of the past chased away by a spurt of jealousy. Hero ought to have felt guilty about playing on the jealousy and insanity that ate away at him, but being Hero, she felt no such thing.

"Well…a dance here, an intimate whisper there… a brush of hand…a stroll in the moonlight, perhaps. They might try to steal a kiss, they usually do…" She let her voice trail off, seemingly picturing the intimate strolls.

Erik hissed an expletive, seeing through the manipulation yet unable to help his own nature.

"You will do no such thing!" He growled. Hero's eyes glinted mockingly.

"And what is there to stop me?"

**OOOOO**

It was so very hard to be an angel, Christine reflected, as she brushed her long golden hair with a mother-of-pearl inlaid brush, when you were but human. Raoul wanted a babe. A little boy to carry on the family line, and a girl with bouncing golden ringlets, whose giggles could echo the corridors of the old chateau. But Christine could not dedicate her life to a child, now, when she had only just gotten it back for herself, and still felt her grip on sanity frail at best.

She sighed and prepared to ring a bell to summon her maid. It was time to fix her hair and go out into society. Natalie De Chagny was visiting and Raoul had promised them a lovely dinner in the city. Somewhere far away from the seeping shadows of the Opera. The Comte believed his wife to be frightened of it, still. And Christine's eyes and mind often strayed in the direction of the mysterious building.

She came down the grand staircase, into their finest gilded sitting room. Rumor had it that the golden edging and elegant settees came all the way from the time of Louis XV. Natalie was pacing across the rich Persian carpets and immaculately polished parquet floors. The impatient swish of her skirts and the nervous tap of her little boots made Christine stop in the doorway.

"Cousin? Are you well?" She asked, thinking how strange it was to refer to Raoul's family as her own.

Startled, Natalie spun around, her brow creased into a frown. Christine crossed the thick carpet to take the other woman's hand. Raoul had acquired many Persian rugs and artifacts of late. These were popular if less fashionable than the latest craze regarding Indian curios.

"Has Raul returned yet?"

Christine's husband had been at a meeting with the nobleman Dantes and some merchant earlier that day. Something about the latest shipment from Persia, though she didn't know the details of the arrangement. Christine did not involve herself in the business affairs of men.

"Not yet. Though I cannot imagine what keeps him." Her voice held a note of worry. He was meant to be back hours ago now that she stopped to think about it. Time had a way f slipping by her these days…

Natalie frowned. Christine moved to one of the opulent, embroidered couches, sitting down.

"I am certain he will be along shortly, Natalie. Come sit with me and wait." She gestured with a silk-gloved hand to the cushion next to hers. Natalie looked at her new cousin for the first time that night. Christine's golden mane was pinned up, decorated with pearls and silk flowers. The golden haze was emphasized by the candlelight on her face, giving her the appearance of an angel.

She had heard Raoul call his new bride his 'angel' once, and had noticed the flash of a pained wince almost too quick to be seen on Christine's face. Almost as though she had been touched with a hot poker, branding her. Raoul, in his light manner did not notice the effect of the endearment. She remembered also the somewhat tortured air around the woman, that day she had visited Raoul a few weeks prior.

Christine had the air of one permanently living in a hairshirt. Or perhaps expecting the sky to collapse on her at any moment.

A very strange state of mind for one so young, lovely and newly made Countess. It had occurred to Natalie that the young Comtesse was living in her own private purgatory. But she remembered Christine from much earlier than her previous visit. They had met before, though the Comtesse had never mentioned it, giving Natalie to believe that she did not remember.

It was in Perros, when she had holidayed with her aunt, uncle and cousins. Phillipe was much too old for the child Natalie to spend time with, having more than a decade on her, but Raoul had been merely two years older, and so the girl had taken to spending her time with her younger cousin and his nanny. Raoul already had a friend at Perros, she remembered, a slight pale girl, the daughter of a musician. They were not French by blood, Natalie vaguely remembered though she could not just then recall Christine's maiden name, to be able to place her _nationalite d'origin._ And they were not of noble blood, as the late Comtesse de Changy had pointed out with some distress, though the count dismissed her concern. What did it matter with children the bloodline of their playmate?

Natalie had felt a brief pang of jealousy at the look of sheer delight on her cousin's face, whom she decided to name her dearest friend in all the world, when he found that Christine was there for the summer also. Natalie's jealousy faded soon, when she found that she fit in well enough with the pair, the girl being even closer to her age. They were a tight little group full of mischief and fun.

Even then, in her childish eyes Christine had been beautiful, like one of the wonderful dolls in Natalie's mother's front parlour, walled off by a cabinet of glass. Porcelain and perfect in their pretty pink dresses with their cornflower eyes and blonde locks. Natalie had never been allowed to play with one, though she could remember wanting to so very much.

That was little Christine to the last. Despite liking the idea of having another playmate, the bond of ribbons and ponies that unites little girls did not bind them in the least. Their unity was born of Korrigan hunts around the cliffs and beaches. Christine had been an unusual friend with her far-away eyes and the insatiable thirst she and Raoul felt towards those folk-stories told by the elder members of the Perros community. In truth Natalie hadn't liked most of them, finding them sinister and unsettling, she could remember shivering and hugging her knees, while avoiding looking at the shadows in the room, while the other two children sat with eager poised interest. She remembered sneaking out into the garden at night, heart beating with fear, imagining the wind at her neck to be the cold hands of the ghosts and fairies, trying to lull her to her death. Raul and Christine had seemed eager though, to catch even a glimpse of one, and Natalie would never had admitted her fear lest they exclude her. So she went along to all the fairy-hunts and then at bed time she leaped into bed from across the room afraid that clammy grasping hands would grab her from beneath the bed.

That was the only summer Natalie spent with the girl, but it seemed that over the years Christine had grown into a somewhat strange woman. Still remote and beautiful, with a singing voice to match. It had been a shock to the family when Raoul announced his desire to marry the soprano. Apart from the obvious problems of her disreputable career, for men looked to the stage for mistresses certainly, but not wives, there was that strange scandal to which Christine's name was linked, the affair of the Opera Ghost.

In spite of all, Christine remained for the most part sweet and obliging, child-like. Natalie never saw the appeal the girl might hold for her cousin, aside from her obvious beauty. There were others more free-willed and beautiful and of more appropriate birth, yet Raoul was insistent upon this marriage. Perhaps there was more to the girl that met the eye…

Natalie regarded Christine carefully, sitting in the chair next to her little couch. There was a glint of repressed knowledge in her blue eyes, as though she suspected something she would not acknowledge.

"Christine, your father was a musician, was he not?" Natalie asked, more to break the silence than anything, her voice seemed to be lost in the consuming silence of the room. "What instrument was it that he used play? The viola? Violin?"

They waited through most of the night, concern rising to the point of barely-concealed restrain. Christine for her part tried not to let her mind wonder in _that_ direction. He wouldn't have taken Raoul! Not after all this time! Not after their confrontation! She was free! They were free! She felt the familiar despair in the pit of her stomach. And the familiar madness. Would she have to crusade again, against the fallen angel, who held no power over her soul? Could she hope to win this time? What price would she have to pay for her such a victory ? Chills crawled up her spine. No! She shook her head desperately, trying to clear it. No, that part of her life was over. Raoul had merely been detained by negotiations over contracts. He would be along shortly. Then they would go to dinner. She would have roast beef, with sautéed mushrooms and cool wine. All would be well.

Hours crawled by but Raoul did not return.

They'd barely registered as the night filtered into morning eve as they were aware of every minute that passed by. The house began to wake. Soon the servants beganmoving about. The sounds were foreign, removed.

There was a sharp knock on the door cutting into the strange reverie of the two women who still had not moved. Christine and Natalie had been drinking shaky cups of tea, having called for them but a half hour ago. They still wore the formal gowns and jewels from the night before. Their faces were drawn, dark circles under their eyes. Both women rose to unsteady feet and hurried into the entrance hall just as one of the maidservants, answered the door. In the clinging cold of dusk,stood none other than Jeanne Dantes, frowning, face pale and worried, she wore a grey shawl over a rumpled dress and for some reason Christine sensed a touch of guilt, though she could not say why she thought so.

Ignoring the startled maid and not waiting for an invitation, Madame Dantes hurried in, flinty eyes fixed on the Comtesse and the unknown woman by her side.

"Madame Dantes…" Christine began an exclamation of surprise, but Madame Dantes spoke before she could finish.

"Excuse my unbecoming intrusion, Comtesse, but I must know, your husband, is he home?" Christine felt all the worse for the worry in the woman's voice. The last they had seen of each other had been that strange night, when Christine had confronted the Angel who had stolen her soul. Christine had yet to think through the events of that night, some meanings remaining yet unclear to her. She had know a freedom than that she had forgotten could exist, though somehow she also had an inkling that her bond with her tormentor had yet to be severed. That it never would be, she felt, and felt more disturbed by it. Jeanne had left her standing outside the opera house with a dying phantom and the savage girl who believed it her god-given duty to defend a murderer.

Christine was unsure about Jeanne Dantes, though the woman had helped her in the past, the Comtesse did not know what her agenda was this time.

"No, Madame, he is not. He did not come home last night." She replied carefully…

**OOOOO**

Hero And Erik were on their way to visit Nadir Khan. It was a pleasant, quiet night, though the air was still crisp and cold. They had elected to walk, Erik still preferring the cover of darkness to make their ventures out into the world beyond the walls of the Opera. Hero had taken his arm, as befitting a lady escorted by a gentleman, her eyes glinting with mirth in the light of the nearby lantern. Erik snorted, still tensing at her touch, though he did not pull his arm away or scold her as he would have been wont to do before the events which Hero had 'cleverly' described as somewhat illuminating, earning a derisive laugh from the Phantom and a dry comment in regards to the sharpness of her wit.

It was, Erik thought, a rather strange variation on the walks in the part of his imaginings. Though of course in his imaginings his companion had been a wife. With golden hair and eyes like the sky. Hero had never occurred to him then in those dark days of the Requiem Mass.

They had just turned the corner of Rue Scribe, when a figure materialized out of the rat-infested alley before them. It wore dark colours, its face hidden by a wide brimmed hat. Erik's hand went to his sabre, and Hero tensed, waiting for the silent figure to speak.

"_Mademoiselle la Rogue_?" The voice was low, rasping.

One corner of Hero's lips curled,

"Not in the least. What an unusual name, though, alas, it is not mine."

"Ah, but I beg to differ. My name is Dreyer and I have been looking for you for some while, mademoiselle." At Hero's disdainful snort he went on, "As it were we happened to have gotten wind of your particular brand of talent in a certain questionable department. My employer is willing to pay any sum you'd care to name to ensure the elimination of a very particular threat. You were trained by the best, _Mistresss Winterwood_, and we trust you would pass for the best yourself with the right motivation."

Erik watched the apparition impassively, while Hero's eyebrows shot up.

"Assuming, _friend_ that I am who seem so sure I am, I have no business with assassinations that much is fact. And overlooking even this, you would have me make a pact with parties of which I know nothing, to run off at your word and kill another party I know nothing off? Who do you take me for, monsieur?" Her voice was faintly mocking

"Then you refuse?"

"That should have been evident in itself. And don't bother yourself attempting blackmail. It will not work. Now if you will excuse me."

She made to walk away, but the man extended a hand, staying her, "I think, mademoiselle, in light of recent circumstance that have to yet come to your attention, you will yet reconsider. Make no mistake, we will meet again." Without another word he disappeared back into the alley.

Erik made to follow the stranger but Hero's hand on his sleeve stopped him. They stood in silence for a moment longer, before resuming their stride.

"What was that about your questionable skills, my dear? And your tendency to attract every sort of trouble available?" Erik asked, his beautiful voice silky. Hero shrugged, mind racing.

"I couldn't tell you. As to the skills, he must be referring to my failed career as an assassin. A rather unfortunate incident of youthful rebellion. It is a tiresome story for another time. Still, I have a bad feeling about our mysterious friend's identity and parting words. Whatever could he mean by 'recent circumstances'?"

"I imagine we will find out shortly, and probably wish we had not…" The Phantom said darkly.


	2. hearing is believing pt2

Here it is as promised, so tell me what you guys think!

**Hot4Gerry**Wow, I really appreciate you liking my last story that much! Well…I guess this chapter with answer some of your questions… the hot and steamy? Erik still has quite few issues to sort out before the relationship can move that far, though likely it will. (the details? I'm not sure I'm any good at writing those but we'll see where the story takes us!) Though, lots of romance, I promise! I'm glad you picked up on Erik's 'unsuredness'. He's still waiting for the whole thing to fall apart at any moment (which makes sense considering his history). He is unsure of himself and of Hero, and having never had a relatively normal relationship, has no idea what to do. And Hero can be a bit brash…Let the fun begin! lol

As always thanks to everyone for reading!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom,so….yeah.**

**Hearing is believing, part 2**

"Well, adventure is all well and good, I'm sure, mademoiselle, but I for one am glad to be able to rest in peace once again. Relative though that peace might be." Nadir Khan sighed contentedly, before lifting his teacup of the aromatic jasmine brew to his lips again.

Hero laughed, and Erik gave a sinister chuckle, their earlier concerns at the backs of their minds for the moment. They were enjoying their evening visitation in Nadir's little flat. The girl made a point of inviting Nadir to the Winterwood soiree. Hero was greatly amused by the mental image of Lady Winterwood's reaction to her strange new array of friends.

"For someone of such an opinion, you were very handy in that little scuffle with the Illuminati! Wherever did you learn to hold your own in a fight so well?"

Hero noticed the warning look Erik shot Nadir and watched the Persian more carefully.

Nadir shrugged carelessly. "One does ones best, my dear lady. Moreover I was the Chief of the Police in my younger days in Persia…"

Whatever else he meant to say was interrupted by a loud commotion in the hall. The three looked up just as a harried looking Darius opened the door.

"Master," the Daroga's manservant began, "There is a lady outside. She insists upon seeing you this very moment. The name of Dantes."

Nadir looked mildly surprised, even as Hero Winterwood raised a dark eyebrow. Erik merely watched Darius impassively, sipping his tea.

"Dantes? Is that so? Ah, in that case, please, let the lady in. If you'll excuse me, my friends?" he asked the other two, apologizing for the interruption.

"Not at all, Daroga. Far be it from us to interfere with your apparently colorful personal life." The Phantom drawled sardonically. Nadir smoothly ignored his old friend as Jeanne Dantes appeared in the doorway, Darius hovering behind her, waiting to take her shawl and hat.

"Monsieur Khan! Thank God that you agreed to see me! If you will forgive the impropriety of my visit…"

The Daroga gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Not at all Madame. Please, allow Darius to take your hat and tell me how it is that I can be of assistance to you?"

Startled, Jeanne turned to look at the other two occupants of the room. Recognition flared in her eyes.

"Monsieur, mademoiselle…" She greeted the Opera Ghost and his companion. "You are here…then I was right in my guess..." She turned a contemplative look on the Phantom, "Monsieur, there is another with me, who has elected to stay in the carriage, but I believe it is her intention to speak to you sooner or later. Perhaps it would be shrewd to do so now, before a tragedy like to the one of a few weeks back takes place?"

Her announcement was followed by a flinty silence, before Hero Winterwood broke it with an exasperated huff.

"I'd gamble my mother that I know exactly who this shy friend of yours is, Madame Dantes."

"Darius!" Nadir called, "Please, would you show the Comtesse De Changy in? She is waiting outside, in the Dantes carriage. Then, would you be so kind as to join us, I have a feeling your assistance would be beneficial to whatever the outcome of the discussion is to be."

Darius bowed and left to escort the former diva into the little flat. The servant privately agreed with his master's unspoken observation that trouble was afoot. He wondered what was to happen next. The improbable amount trouble to be found in these lands seemed of late to rival the intrigues of the Persian court, he thought, approaching the carriage door.

OOOOO

They sat around the Perian's small living room, listening intently as the Jeanne Dantes laid the tale before them.

She had known something was not right last afternoon as Dantes announced his forthcoming business meeting with some trade partners both French and foreign. Jeanne had felt a strange sort of tightness around her lungs, a premonition of doom. She saw her dread in the shadow play of some leaves rustling in the wind.

It was then that Jeanne had known with gypsy certainty that her husband would not be returning to her that night but when she tried to warn him off he would hear none of it, irritated that she had even mentioned the 'seer nonsense' again. Dantes had always been strongly disapproving of her oddity and usually she took care to make no mention of it to him. She had gone in and had a cup of chamomile tea trying to clear her head and think. Perhaps she was just overtired and her imagination was playing her for a fool. Glancing down into the tea she felt her vision tilt.

Strange, unexplained things swam before her eyes. A room made of mirrored glass, hoarse pleads and the cruel lilting laughter of a girl. There were jars and jars of something preserved in brine though she could make out what it was. There was sand and a hot sun.

No-one interrupted her, though Erik and Nadir exchanged a quick meaningful glace, their eyes speaking volumes about a suspicion they dreaded to voice. Hero wondered if the sudden turn of events had anything to do with the man they'd met outside the alley earlier that night.

Jeanne spoke of her Husband's business ventures with Raoul de Chagny and a Comte de Chance, at whose name Hero raised an eyebrow. The co-incidence was too much of one, she thought. She knew that De Chance had been seeking an alliance with the de Chagny family, enough so as to throw that ball in honour of the new Comte and Comtesse. Though what the disappearance of a man she did not know, and Christine de Changny's foppish husband had to do with convincing her to take on some unexplained job she could not puzzle out. Her grey eyes strayed contemplatively around the room towards the former soprano.

The Comtesse in question sat, straight and unblinking, staring at the Phantom as though both knew someone no-one else did not. She did not spare Hero Winterwood so much as a glance. She had yet to speak at all aside from her greeting Nadir upon arrival.

"What you speak of, madame…it sounds distinctly like the Persia of my youth. Do you not think so, Erik?" Nadir's eyes were kindly scanning Jeanne's face. Erik did not reply, and the Persian continued. "It makes sense then with your husband's merchant connections…I might easily be wrong but I think the answers lie that way."

"Persia?" Hero eyed Nadir, Darius and Erik in turn, "because of the sand? The rest of the vision seems rather arbitrary to me. It could mean anything. Yet you seem very certain, Nadir."

"I am." No-one seemed forthcoming to say anymore.

"De Chance… isn't he a friend of yours?" Erik asked the Winterwood girl, breaking the silence that had fallen over them, and avoiding looking at the woman who had once been his world.

Hero's lips curled into a razor sharp smile, "We've met on the odd occasion. I imagine de Chance must be a little irritated with the loss of his Spanish inheritance."

"As orchestrated by you and your friends?" Nadir asked pointedly.

"Just so." Hero's expression was smug. She drank of her second cup of tea.

Jeanne shook her head, "You speak so lightly of him, yet I sense a great unknown in regards to his involvement. I confess I know nothing of this Comte de Chance or of the connection he might have with husband and the Comte de Changy. They were new business partners and I have never so much as met the man."

"I couldn't begin to guess. De Chance works in his own interests only, and he never forgets a slight." Hero shrugged, "so anything is pos..."

Christine's head shot up.

"Erik!" The silent Phantom's gaze shot towards her. Hero eyed the Comtesse with distaste.

Christine leaned towards him as though barely restraining herself form running to his side. Her voice was pleading.

"Erik! You …you hate Raoul. I know that, but you are the only one who can save him! I know you can, Angel." Her voice fell to an imploring whisper, "You can find him. You can do anything. Save him, I beg!"

Now she did rise off her chair, only to fall to her knees in front of Erik.

"We went through so much, and to lose it all now..." She whispered frantically, looking off into the distance, "I beg of you, Angel, save him, if you love me, if you ever felt even the inkling of love for me, save him! I will do anything you ask…"

She reached out a hand to him, imploring, but dropped it when the Phantom flinched away. Startled blue eyes met Hero's grey ones, full of a rather cruel amusement.

As though suddenly remembering herself Christine rose to her feet and moved back to her seat with enough dignity to render the late Comtesse proud.

The others exchanged glances. The young Comtesse seemed to be coming undone. Jeanne's eyes looked at Hero somewhat reproachfully, but the girl did not appear to notice, her own hand on Erik's for a moment.

Feeling in equal parts spiteful and curios at this new turn of events and the taste of an adventure, ignoring Christine's suddenly icy gaze, Hero spoke up,

"I've always wanted to see Persia. If that is where we are to go, and of that you seen sure so it must be. I hear it is a land that leaves none unchanged. I shall round-up my friends, and look into this matter for you, Madame Dantes."

Erik said nothing.

Jeanne was surprised. "Will you? I do not mean to force your hand! I…you are not bound to help in any way, mademoiselle. I came to monsieur Khan merely to ask advice. I cannot begin to thank you for your kind offer, nor tell you what it means to me..."

The Winterwood girl waved off Jeanne's thanks and they discussed what was to be done for a while. Hero would go, and Erik with her. This seemed to worry Nadir immensely though he didn't dare voice his concern, instead deciding to defy his own exile. Madame Dantes insisted that she too would go. Christine said nothing at all for a long time before announcing her intention to search for her husband. The Comtesse would not be convinced otherwise. Whatever waited her there would be far easier to bear than sitting and waiting and wondering. There was a strange set expression on her face. She smiled at Erik, "You will help me, Angel?"

It was then that the Persian suggested, with a worried glance at Christine, that perhaps the two women ought to return home and get some rest.

Nadir rose to help Jeanne up, and Hero saw a tenderness fleet across his face "Don't worry, Madame, all will be well, I am certain." Apparently catching the jest Jeanne smiled weakly, thanking him quietly.

OOOOO

"You will take the assassination job?" Erik asked, though it wasn't really a question. Hero sighed and shivered as the felt him close behind, a cold finger running down her neck. She should have known that he too, had linked the two occurrences of the night. He had probably made the connection long before she did.

After the two women had left, she and Erik did not linger long before saying their farewells to the Persian. The conversation had been speculative and much was left unsaid.

Bewildered she shook her head at Erik's question.

"It would make sense, given your decision to volunteer to go on this dandy-hunt. Why did you volunteer, then?"

Hero knew he would find her light attitude grating, but she said it all the same.

"It was a spur of the moment idea." She didn't mention the sudden urge to be cruel to Christine de Chagny, "I will go to Persia, but as usual my reasons are my own- it sounds like a worthy adventure. And an opportunity to rub victory in the face of the dear Comte de Chance again. It has, after all been over two weeks since I was last chased across great distances by men bent on ending my life, Erik. " Then she added as an after thought, hearing his hiss of irritation,

"But I am no assassin. Enough of my apprenticeship is gone that I am likely not fit for the job. I was never quite cut out for it, I'm afraid. Though my proposed tutor thought it a novel idea- a female assassin is somewhat unexpected. It would've given me great leverage. But it is not as glamorous as one might think, and certainly not for me. I couldn't ever say why, perhaps it has something to do with delivering death at the bidding of others. A glorified executioner."

"Perhaps." He stiffened, his words terse.

Hero frowned and shot him a puzzled look. "What ever is the matter?"

When he didn't answer she turned to face him fully.

"Erik?"

He looked sinister, a dark form in the setting sun, shadows playing across his disfigured features. They were back on the roof again. It was a good place for reflection. His eyes blazed down at her. His voice had gone down to the booming low pitch that had always made Nadir shudder.

"You would know what horrors plague Erik? What blood-demons he unleashed in his life? These demons would destroy you, _my dear_, rip your pretty little soul from you, tear your mind apart as they did his. Or would, if he had any sanity left to massacre." His tone was mocking sing-song now, steadily rising in pitch.

"Now that you ask, I find it a risk worth taking." Hero answered in light tones, keeping her teeth from grating.

"Don't be pert, child! Some things you will never know! Else you will never bear to spare a glance my way your whole life long without disgust and terror wreaking their havoc upon you. You would flee from me then. But its to late for fleeing now. Oh no, no, no, Erik wont allow that."

Hero's mouth was set in disapproval. She didn't take well with his attempts to frighten her into silent obeisance. Unconsciously she ran a hand down the dark lapel of his coat.

"You underestimate me yet again. I wish you wouldn't keep playing these charades. You Nadir, with your hidden glances and your secretive words! Whatever it may be, I have no intention of fleeing. Not when I've just about talked you into getting rid of that coffin. I have the right to know, whatever it is you're so keen on hiding from me."

"The little lady would know, would she?! Very well!" He grabbed her arm, harder than he realized, "Know then the murders and blood staining the hands of this monster before you. Did you think I only killed at the opera house? Driven insane by the darkness and the rats? I was as assassin! A _glorified executioner_! I have done things darker more terrible than you could begin to imagine! All the while hating the targets, the master and myself! I reveled in the bloodlust! Oh, if only you knew, how your breath would catch in that pretty throat, how your heart would beat, how your skin would crawl as if it were about to peel right off you. How you'd plead for mercy from your _poor dear_ Erik."

Hero ignored his grip, frowning as something occurred to her, another piece in the puzzle of Erik's moments of angry insights, "In Persia? Is what you forbade Nadir to speak of? Is that how you met? Why he knows so much about you?"

"He knows little. Even less about me. The Rosy Hours of Mazendaran! Rosy with spilled blood! I was a curiosity for the shah and his reviled family, each more murderous than the last. I was an architect and an _executioner_. Until one day my turn to die was upon me. Nadir, idealistic fool that he was, aided my escape and paid the price."

He trailed off into silence, no doubt thinking of his days in Persia. The long thin fingers slackened their grip on Hero's arm, and she sensed that he would speak no more of his past.

"If you barely escaped your death then your return to Persia would be a danger to you both! You need not go back! I will go alone…"

"You will not!" the command could have frozen her breath. Hero stopped in mid-sentence.

Grey eyes narrowed, "It isn't **her** _request_ that spurs you on, is it?…you can still deny her nothing…are we to never be free of her?!"

Erik scowled at her sharp glare, saying nothing.

"How quickly you assume. How boldly. Oh no, no. How _incorrectly_ you assume. Perhaps I go to wallow in blood again? Or perhaps I tire of my basement and my rats and my cobwebs? No! Perhaps…perhaps…Perhaps Erik doesn't wish to let go what is his! What so willingly walked into one of his traps and refused to leave. The moth that dared to stray further and further into the web? "

Hero wondered if he would ever speak his feelings plainly. She thought of how best to reply, but before she could he seized her in a punishing kiss that spoke through the insanity that had taken over his voice.

OOOOO

It the bright, cool light of the morning, Nadir had arrived through the Rue Scribe entrance. Hero was reading a pilfered morning paper, which Erik had scoffed at, dismissing the futile gossip ripe through this particular publication.

He greeted them a bit absently, a worried frown creasing his dark brow beneath a white turban.

If Nadir disapproved of the living arrangement of the past few weeks, whether innocent or not, he said nothing of it. Hero remembered how Erik had insisted she stay in the room he had occupied while injured. Hero had fervently refused, as she would not hear of him back in his own dreary chamber. She had happened to look in there again, and remembered her plan to force Erik to get a proper bed in there instead of the ghastly polished black coffin standing upon its dais, lid open as though in some strange hunger. She had relentlessly pestered him on the subject and he seemed about ready to give in. She had, however, forgotten to do anything about the active removal of it in all the excitement of the past month. Hero made a mental note to have a private word with Nadir about the possible installation of a bed.

The girl glared challengingly at the tall, morbidly red candles, and the Requiem draperies, before walking back out, lips pursed. Her stubborn expression miraculously dissuaded Erik from his anger in regards to her intrusion into his private chambers. Sometimes, there was simply no point in arguing.

He had won the bedroom argument through negotiating that as the man (this last said with twisted irony, which Hero chose to ignore) he would sleep on the long couch. Exasperated, Hero agreed simply because he had been dissuaded from sleeping in the coffin. That night in a dark mood he had stormed at her, ordering her to keep her door locked against him.

With the girl sleeping helplessly but a wall away, could he control himself, the monster that he was? Now that Erik had found himself a little recovered from his multiple injuries he would not dare trust himself. So he had shouted and threatened, paced and glared, his voice shaking the very walls. Hero watched him patiently, wincing every time his voice rose yet again, not wanting to imagine the pain in his throat come morning. She made a mental note to put a lot of honey into his breakfast tea.

When he had finally calmed down, instructing her that it was time for bed, Hero reminded him that he didn't order her about like a mindless waif, taking a book off the shelf. He had stormed out of the room, and she could hear the organ bellowing angrily, though she did not recognize what it was he was playing. When Hero did go to her bed, the key to the door was left pointedly on the coffee table. Erik had cursed the little fool, and his own twisted mind, as he fought the temptation of a woman sleeping so very near.

The tensions regarding their sleeping quarters did arise quite often, though the moment was quickly broken each time.

Now Nadir stood before them, preoccupied further as Hero told him what she planned to do. They decided in the end, that Nadir would stay in Paris for another week after Hero and Erik left for England, following which he would set sail with Jeanne Dantes, and possibly Christine de Chagny, thought they were still hoping she would be convinced not to go. It would be a long journey but Hero thought neither Nadir nor Jeanne would mind the company.

Hero, Erik, and her friends, if they chose to come, would also sail. From England as close to Nadir's departure as possible. Hero and Erik had agreed to meet them at some hovel of an inn, to take stock and plan their next move.

While Hero's back was turned pouring more tea, Nadir handed Erik a little glass bottle. Morphine. A vice Erik had no intention of beating, in spite of the Persian's disapproving comments and glances. He had had an argument over it with Hero, who had discovered the bruised skin of his arm, once when he had rolled up his sleeved amidst composition. She was relentless in her insistence that he quit the habit, which was ridiculous as he could quit it at any moment he wished, which he didn't.

Already on his way to being weaned off it by the strenuously distracting adventure they had undergone, Hero had conspired with Nadir to dilute the solution further and further, though in very small stages that Erik was unlikely to notice. Who knew what he would do if their little plan was discovered. And knowing the months at sea that awaited them, Hero planned to toss his 'case of life and death' overboard as soon as she got the chance. Nadir was secretly glad he would not be sailing with them.


	3. Into Temptation

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Phantom!**

**An: **Hey Guys! Apologies for the delay, but here it is at last, and I trust it will make up for the wait. I tried to find info on how long it would take to travel to Mazenderan (or even from France to England) back in the Victorian Era, but I didn't find anything of use so I'm going to use artistic license. If anyone can correct me, please do!

This chapter's for **Hot4Gerry**, who hurried me along in updating. Thanks! And don't worry, I have every intention of finishing the story.

**Hot4Gerry****: I'm glad you like Hero so much! I though it important that she's very different from Christine. She's got a different background and a different personality (not to mention different flaws ;-P), so Erik cant fall back on old habits. I try to make her as real as possible. She's assertive and stubborn enough not to let Erik push her around in his self-destructiveness. Plus, she's sneaky and manipulative to match him. She also understands Erik far better than he realizes, and you're right, she is smart enough to use that. He won't be amused over the morphine though. :-) Erik getting what he wants? I daresay he will, whether he likes it or not! Enjoy the chapter! Intrigue is well on its way (and the relationship progression!).**

**As usual, thank-you for your kind reviews and enjoy!**

**Liriel :-)**

**Chapter 2:** **Into Temptation…**

Hero sat by the subterranean lake. Theoretically she was reading a book. In practice she was staring sleepily at the steam swirling lazily over the warm water. Erik was at his piano scribbling something of a thick score. Occasionally he'd play a few bars then break off abruptly, punctuating with muttered curses. Occasionally he'd sing a select line and his golden voice would wash over her. Despite herself Hero would shiver.

She knew Erik was loath to leave his home and sanctuary of so many years, but having still caught him muttering something about tombs she thought it might do him some good, though perhaps Persia was not the bets destination for recreational purposes.

He had just returned from having issued a set of instructions to the managers and a well-placed prank in the workshop of Erik's latest victim- the set director- whose work was questionable to say the least.

He mind drifted off to the previous Tuesday, when Erik had talked her into going to watch Opera Garnier's performance of _Dido and Aeneas_.

As a member of the English upper class, she was no stranger to opera. And while not inclined towards it in any extraordinary way she had always held a faint respect for the performers' skill. She had never before experienced opera as she had that night. Seated next to Erik in the shadowed box, she was transported. He had known the whole opera by heart, and occasionally whispered comments in her ear, his voice like honey. On Erik's part she let him sit close and he was glad. It was so easy to imagine that all was as it should. That soon they would join the throngs below for an interlude glass of champagne. And after the third act, the gala dinner and elegant conversation with friends. To partake of the chatter and acceptance. His breath caught at the unconscious way she leaned close, transfixed by the music. Reyer had outdone himself, the Opera Ghost had admitted to himself as the orchestral pieces swept over them.

Hero signed happily and shot an almost regretful glance at the cases that stood packed by one of the doors.

"Hero…." His voice called to her, carried effortlessly across the chamber.

"Hmm?"

"Come sing for me." He ordered, unsure why he did.

"No." she replied simply, "I'm most content to restrict myself to bawdy ditties."

"But my dear, such depths we can explore together…" He whispered suddenly.

The girl's smile turned devious, "Yes. Though I fail to see what _that_ has to do with your teaching me to sing."

OOOOO

It was about a week after their visit to Nadir Khan's flat they finally set out for England. They took a train to Calais, and traveling as they were in a first class cabin and mistaken for a young married couple, they were more or less left to themselves. Initially Hero suggested traveling the shorter distance to Le Havre instead, but Erik's face darkened at the mention of Rouen, his voice lowering to a hiss. Hero watched him with open concern, and proposed Calais instead. And from there to Dover, with its white cliffs and colourful history. It would be eerie to return to England, she reflected.

The journey was surprisingly uneventful. Though Erik spent a lot of time in expectation that someone should attack them at some point, merely on account of having Hero as a traveling companion. He kept his catgut in the sleeve of his black velvet coat and his epee at his side…

"…You wouldn't be of that pinion if _you_ had to sit for hours in a lurching carriage, laced to the brink of death." Hero growled after Erik had complained about their mode of transportation. He had suggested that it would be much more enjoyable to journey across the English Channel if one didn't have to mill about the infernal ferry.

"A bridge, perhaps." He mused, choosing to ignore her outburst regarding ladies' rather personal garments. For a lady of noble birth he found Hero's brash way of speaking most disconcerting.

Hero chuckled in reply, "All the way across? Impossible! How could one hope to build across such an expanse? And the waves get rather fierce at times." Erik eyed her from the corner of his eye. The incessant, chilly wind gave her cheeks a heightened bloom.

"Simply because it hasn't been done yet, my dear, does not mean such a feat impossible."

"Perhaps. But with reasoning like that one can easily suggest building under instead of over. A tunnel, if you would." Her expression told him she was being purposefully fanciful.

Erik sighed and looked over the water again, "Perhaps one day, mademoiselle. Perhaps one day such a tunnel would be taken for granted!"

Hero shuddered. "I hope not! Least not in my lifetime. Can you imagine the carriage ride then? Assuming one would survive being that far underground, the journey would be horrid. Lurching about this way and that in the dark."

In the perverse recesses of his mind Erik thought that perhaps lurching about in the dark wouldn't be such an unpleasant experience given the right company. Dismissing this unsettling thought, he mentally called himself a lecherous old monster, and tried to focus on the hapless grey waters beneath them.

Despite scolding him, Hero was not enjoying the ride across the Channel any more than Erik. It was as though everyone in France decided to cross the Channel on the same day, and every respectable steamer was full to the brim. They had ended up aboard an old English vessel, the _Celeste Anne_, nearly too full to travel, also. Tossed about on the waves, it was dangerously close to capsizing. Hero suspected, by the creaking boards on deck beneath her feet, that the wood went all the way back to the days of Elizabeth if not earlier yet.

Erik, she found out, had a rather pronounced loathing for such sailing vessels, (and the cramped environment) which she found rather amusing in a man as widely traveled as himself. Though she had to admit Erik always had been contradictory. The water was on the rough side, the day was grey and within the hour of the commencement of the journey, it had begun to drizzle. Worse yet, she found herself strangely restless with little to do. Hero wondered how they were to survive the hours of the journey that waited ahead.

They remained on deck, preferring to spend as much time as possible in the open air away from the stuffy, cloistered room many other passengers had opted for. Hero thought they must make for a very strange sight. Erik's tall thin form swathed in a black traveling cloak, with his worn fedora, and her own cloaked form, the heavy hem of her day dress becoming progressively stained with rainwater. Erik was wearing another mask-that-made-him-look-like-everyone-else. They had not spoken of the Methuselah powder since its recovery. Hero thought it unnecessary except where it were of some help to Erik in battling whatever demons he was still contesting and Erik, she suspected would not use it for fear of finding out it was a sham. The girl understood his standpoint. After spending as tumulus a life as he had in the knowledge that there was no hope for him to live like a normal man, to adapt and to suffer, then to simply be handed a means to right a life-time's wrongs brought into light the question of exactly how much could be righted. One could not change the past and in a way it made the pendant redundant. Another cruel joke of fate. She wondered what would be worse, if it were to work, or if it were to be proven a myth. Hero was sure Erik followed the same reasoning, so he still wore his mask and his false nose.

Erik stared into the cold waters of the English Channel and tried to remember when it was that he went from wanting to bury the girl down with him in his ready-made tomb beneath the Opera to following her on another ridiculous scheme. He comforted himself immensely with the thought that he could still break her neck if he felt it necessary. After all, what was one more life lost to his wily hands?

Sensing his brooding black mood, Hero reached out a hand and squeezed his gloved one, moving to stand closer to him in unvoiced support. He did not move away and his long, thin fingers clutched hers.

OOOOO

Christine was once again before her mirror. Christine didn't like mirrors, because one never quite knew what was to be found on the other side. Yet she also felt a once-professional affinity towards her looking glass. She felt drawn there, thoughts morbid as usual. She was thinking about Raoul. Her poor, dear Raoul, now gone from her, and for who knew how long?

Perhaps…perhaps he might never return. And then what would she do? She had not the head for business, nor could she take full control of the de Chagny affairs, simply because she was a young woman only just married into the old family.

She would be a _widow_ then. She would wear black and sleep alone in a cold bed. She would wear a black veil to hide her drawn face and a black bonnet. She would be like a great crow or perhaps a raven, swathed in mourning feathers. Didn't the ravens used to be white once? She wondered absently, remembering snatches of a story Erik had once told her in those long-ago hours in his fifth basement. She could remember his voice weaving around her, conjuring her into a world of dreams and roses and ribbons. She's been just a girl then, and believed in all those old stories he told her. And he'd told her many. Owls and nightingales, kings of the dead and roses and the girl who ate the pomegranate seeds. Those days seemed so long ago now. She could still remember the candles and the Persian rugs and strange way his eyes lingered on her. And she was just an orphan and a chorus girl. All so long ago now. As though memories of a life belonging to someone else. And yet entirely her own.

Her mind returned to the bleak future. Perhaps she would wear black for decades to come, like the English Queen, who Christine knew, had worn black for these past twelve years! Twelve years and perhaps longer yet. Years and years and years. She would never again go out into society, perhaps. All such outings brought was misery, new lives to end! She was, in her own way, like an executioner. No! No! No! Not again. She'd be a hermit! Like…like… but she wouldn't think his name!

Christine blinked furiously at the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes.

What will happen to the estate after I'm in the ground? She wondered. It would go to some cousin or other. Perhaps Natalie's children if she ever had any. For some reason Christine thought of a brown-haired little girl who shook like a leaf in the wind at horror stories, and didn't like to sing. Christine had no children of her own, nor did it seem she was likely to. She didn't have a boy with her father's eyes, or a girl who looked like the mother she had long since been unable to picture. No, she had no children. None to carry on after, none to mourn by her tomb once she was gone.

None to be insane when she was no more…

…she would be lost to time and history another life passed unnoticed, another name lost to posterity. Who would speak of Christine in a hundred years' time ?

Her name would fade from Opera, if it hadn't already and if any should remember then no more that an echo of a shadow of the truth would go on, of some girl involved in the affair of the Opera Ghost. But they wouldn't know _her_. Just a wraith of mistaken memory.

She frowned at the vision in an off-white satin dressing down, and twisted her long hair, lifting it atop her head in a dramatic coif. Christine scrutinized her face this way and that. Too old to go back to the opera now? A once-Comtesse? No. Not yet. Her face was yet to be marked by time, her shape to sag or stretch. But how much time had she left? Beauty didn't last for ever. Oh, it had brought her pain, but it had also gotten her by. What would she do once it was gone? Already she felt so much older than she was.

But to go back…her voice might fade without his guidance! And she didn't think she'd go back to _His_ Opera house in any case! But then she'd have to start at the bottom again, a faceless chorus girl. And she might never make it to centre-stage again! Such a chance came rarely even once and she had already thrown it away.

She let do of her hair, and it fell back about her shoulders and down to her waist. Christine looked away from her own eyes and out of the nearest window.

So she would not be remembered in the Opera halls, and she would not have children to carry on her likeness. Was this why Raoul had wanted children? And now he would likely die without anyone to carry on his line either. Perhaps if she hadn't been so caught up in the matter of her soul, things would be other than they were. Perhaps Raoul would be with her now. Blowing out the candles around the room, in a sad little dance, she climbed into her cold bed, and vowed that she would have Raoul back no matter what it cost her.

They meant to stop her, she knew, but it wouldn't work. She would be strong. Like one of the heroines she had sung in the opera. Bruhilde! Christine would be Bruhilde, the leader of the Valkyries. Unstoppable and vengeful. She would go to Persia! Yes! Despite their insistence that she ought to remain behind. She would go with Jeanne Dantes.

OOOOO

The former Daroga was nervous though he hid it well and only Darius, who had been his man servant for many years and through many near-disasters, recognized the signs. It was in the way he kept brushing off invisible crumbs off his kaftan and the stiff way he held his head resolutely straight. Nadir Khan was a minor blood relation the Shah of Persia, but enough of one to warrant a pension in his exile. The penalty for ever returning, for either himself or Erik, would be death.

Yet something compelled Nadir, who had always had it in his nature to be

cautious, to take the chance. He looked away from inspecting the long green steam train towards the woman who stood in the sunlight a little away from him, talking politely with an elderly lady and her husband. Darius was arranging the porters to carry their considerable luggage into their compartments. It would be a long train journey, and longer yet to the ports of Mazenderan. Madame Dantes would have her own compartment, as was only proper, and Nadir would share with Darius. Perhaps once it would have been more acceptable to put his servant up in the cabins provided especially for the servants of the wealthy and affluent passengers, but he felt they were both far too old for such nonsense. Darius had been his loyal friend and servant for countless years and returned to his employ as soon as his sentence of five years in the Shah-in-shah's prison was over. Darius had gone into exile with him and now returned with him to the land of their birth. Yes, there were years of friendship behind them.

They felt a slight tinge of guilt at leaving the Comtesse behind, but as Nadir has sadly reasoned, Persia was a hard, unforgiving place and the Comtesse was in far too frail a state to survive it long. Jeanne had felt a strange chill as he said that, and a cold wind made the trees rustle a warning. Her grandmother used to say that when the trees chose to issue a warning it did well to listen, because neither tealeaves nor crystal balls were as much part of the Earth itself as the trees whose roots anchored in it. Jeanne could still see the old matron's eyes shining with surely as she imparted her knowledge. For her part, she wondered what the warning pertained. It was infuriating how easy it was to misunderstand the clue until chaos was well under way. Was she being warned against the Comtesse coming along? Or staying behind? But there was no time to ponder so she let the Persian choose. Something in his warm eyes encouraged her to trust him.

At last, all baggage safely stored away, they made their way into the train in silence, heading for the restaurant compartment. It would not be proper to remain alone in mixed company inside a private compartment. Each took a final look behind them, though they could not see Paris inside the station. The journey would take them in as straight a path as possible across Europe and to the shores of the Caspian sea. From thence they would cross to Persia. Nadir thought of seeing Nizniy-Novgorod again. He thought of the last time he was there and shuddered. How young he was then, how naïve! He remembered the tall magician so full of rage and hate, and the twist in his gut foreshadowing the tragedy Erik would bring upon them both. Nadir thought of that young man nervously fidgeting in Erik's tent and felt as though he did not know him at all.

OOOOO

Christine was _furious_. Livid. She would not be left behind to _rot_ in Paris!

At the appointed hour she'd arrived at the Dantes townhouse only to be politely informed that the Madame and her companions had already left on what would be a somewhat extended journey. Speechless, face drained of blood and nostrils flaring Christine saw red. How _dare_ they!

With chilling thanks to the servant that had opened the door, she walked briskly back to her carriage where she hovered indecisively between bursting into loud angry sobs and screaming her rage for all the street to hear. The Comtesse settled for mutilating her fine lace parasol, surprising herself.

So they would keep her tied back in France would they? Forgotten and out from under their feet. She was sure that that British brat had something to do with this. Oh, how Christine longed to strike her. Blue eyes narrowed.

No, she could not go to Persia alone. The way was long and dangerous. But perhaps there was _something_ she could do…

Coolly ordering the hensom to take her to the train station Christine decided that it was her time to triumph. And triumph she would.

OOOOO

As the carriage drew to a halt, Hero gave another exasperated sigh. Erik ignored her, opening the door and stepping down onto the dirt lane.

"I shall see you at the manor my dear." His yellow eyes brooked no argument. That had yet to deter Hero.

"Fool. This charade is unnecessary, Erik." She eyed him evenly.

"Charade? Far from it, mademoiselle, I am merely trying to retain what little of your reputation might yet remain."

Hero's lips curled into a mocking smile, and she considered kissing him, for all the surrounding countryside and the cabbies to see, for the sake of irony if nothing else, but he had already shut the door and was gone into the carriage hired to travel behind, unoccupied till now.

Shaking her head Hero settled back in her seat, and raised her voice to order the driver to continue on. As the carriage moved on in a rather lurching manner, more so that usual to the uneven lane, the girl winced. The confounded corset bit into her with the jarring movement.

Erik's sense of propriety, Hero decided was rather misplaced. She wondered where he had managed to dig up the concept at all. For a man who lurked in the dark corners of the Opera, seeing the devil only knew what from his veil of shadows, he had managed to astound Hero by refusing to arrive with her.

It would fuel unwarranted talk and attention, he had told her, eyes flashing. Hero rather thought it was the attention not the talk that bothered the Opera Ghost. Further more, he had refused to stay at the manor, as the rest of Hero's close friends were to be doing, and had instead gotten a room at an inn in one of the near-by little villages dotting the countryside, which they had passed through about a mile and a half from the Winterwood estate. Hero suspected that the room he'd rented was most likely the only room to be had at the inn, but had said nothing of it, planning ways to talk Erik out of such dubious lodgings.

As they rounded the bend in the road, and into the straight track up the manor, a look of irritation crossed her face. The Winterwood residence was just over a century old, rebuilt from scratch, after the original structure had burnt beyond easy repair, taking most of the older portraits and articles with it. The portraits had been replaced with the ones to be found in her father's hunting lodge and some from the London Townhouse Lady Winterwood favored on her trips into town. Silly gables and turrets had been added on a few years back for effect, when it had become fashionable to remodel one's residence after the castles of centuries gone by. Hero had always thought it a rather ridiculous idea. The old House stood grey and somewhat affronted amidst the silk tents and ribbons that decorated the front lawns. Lady Winterwood had chosen an Eastern theme this year, as it was all the rage. Hero chuckled to herself at yet another of life's little ironies. As the sun was near setting tall candles set on tables of refreshments were being lit.

Little groups of guests stood around the lawn, some still in the travel garb, having just arrived and others in the more elaborate clothes they were to wear for dinner later that night. It was a tradition of sorts, to gossip and greet and observe who arrived, how and with whom. Laughter, and the sound of dimmed conversation reached the carriage as Hero neared the circular drive at the front of the house. A few discrete and not-so-discrete glances were shot at the latest in the procession of carriages, to take in the new arrival. Resisting the urge to fling the door open and step out of the carriage, Hero waited for the valet to open the door for her, extending a gloved hand to help her down.

"Miss Hero." Her greeted bowing over her hand, as she searched her memory for the man's name.

"How do you do, Fred?" She asked, when it came to her, eye glittering with mirth at his courteous tones. Her mother ran a tight ship.

"Well enough, Miss." He reached up to take down her luggage, and motioned for two runners to take it up to her room.

"That's good to hear." She smiled before proceeding to the pair that had yet to see her, nodding at the other guests as she went.

Meg was already there, as was Germaine, accompanied by a dower middle aged woman, who turned out to be Meg's aunt Greta. They had been permitted a week off by Madame Giry as the opera was taking a little break between performances. The other rats, who had managed to use up all the time they could be reasonably permitted away from the Garnier, had been forced to sullenly remain behind. Meg though Jammes would not easily forgive them for being permitted the trip. Antoinette expected them back in good dancing shape within the week and having produced Greta gave strict orders for her to keep a careful eye on her girls.

The ballerinas had rushed at her, bubbling with excitement. Meg kept looking around at the guests, in quick searching glances. With the two rats still chatting merrily, Hero proceeded over to the two over-dressed young men.

"Why, Dominic! Flynn! Fancy meeting you here." She greeted as they turned, seeing her approach and grinning foppishly.

"Well if it isn't my bride to be!" Flynn announced, grabbing her in a tight, clumsy embrace, and letting go when Dominic slapped him on the arm, greeting Hero with a bow over her hand, over which the pair burst into further giggles. She introduced the Englishmen to the rats who curtsied elegantly. Flinn did his best to reciprocate with a bow. Dominic laughed again at his friend. Unperturbed, Flinn went on, "And where is that well-intentioned, but lamentably out-of-luck Frenchman of yours?"

A nervous look flashed across Meg's face.

"In one of the carriages following I would imagine." Hero replied looking towards the drive. She turned just in time to se the valet's starteled face as he opened the door to Erik's carriage. Hero deduced the carriage was empty. Sure Enough She spitted Erik's lean dark shape almost gliding towards her through the poorly lit part of the front garden.He was wearing his black mask, having replaced the Mask-that-made-him-look-like-everyone-else. His eyes glowed faintly golden.

No-one else seemed to have noticed him.

"And there he is indeed, if you'll excuse me for a moment?" With a twinge of deviousness she hurried towards Erik, followed by her friends' amused eyes.

"Erik! I am so very delighted that you have found the time to attend our little party!" She announced loudly upon reaching him, drawing considerable glances and whispers from the near-by guests, while his yellow eyes narrowed at her. Erik hated crowds, the beady eyes watching his every move. He knew this was Hero's idea of a little revenge at his having left her to make her entrance alone. He felt his rage stirring biling inside him, even as the confounded girl approached him gaily, and his felt that strange pang again, at the absolute, stubborn lack of remorse in her eyes, and the easy way she led him away into the house, taking his arm as though he was just another man of many. Normal and complete.

It was so easy to forget in those moments, to believe in the pretty charade the girl was playing. He had, in their time together come to flintily believe, if but a little, in her utter lack of care for his appearance, but old habits died hard, and he had been betrayed enough times for trust to be an elusive thing. And while he might have come to feel something that he dare not call 'love' even in the (very) relative safety of his own mind, that was less reason to trust. He had learned that lesson with Christine, and a hundred thousand times before her. But even more so, he knew what he was and he knew the world would never allow him to forget.

Erik's presence was greeted with more than the obligatory amount of curiosity. The Phantom in his turn felt every inkling of his socio-phobic misanthropist nature play up. He did not like people and he hated crowds. The glitter of staring eyes and trailing whispers followed his every move. Only Hero's clutching grip on his elbow forced her stiff companion to move at all. Noting his darting eyes, Hero felt a prickling of guilt and irritation. She was a selfish creature by nature but she would not see Erik suffer as he was apparently set to do. The irritation was at her mother, who absolutely had to have the guests hobnobbing on the front lawns, which spanned the length of the drive, watching and weighing every new arrival.

"Keep smiling, my dear, and you will smile your way into the afterlife. I am sorely tempted to wring your pretty little neck." He hissed in the voice of Death, throwing his voice into her ear even as he faced ahead.

They were walking swiftly down the wide corridor off the entrance hall now. Hero shivered at his tone, and gave a low chuckle. Their steps made no sound on the marble floor.

"Temptation never did anyone any harm lest it were acted upon, and the lasso is but the least of those temptations." She whispered back suggestively, brazenly playing with his fragile mind. His eyes flashed, again, but less with fury than at the evocative note in Hero's voice. Hero was glad to see his anger forgotten, but before she could speak again, the Phantom yanked her into an alcove on their right, unlit by the candles illuminating the rest of the hall.

"These are dangerous games you play with Erik, my dear, and Erik _is_ _mad_. You cannot trust him to play justly." Hero stared up at him, her back pressed against the wall, Erik's thin form crowding her. She heard the warning in his words and stifled a sigh.

"I have a rather higher opinion of your sanity than you do, if seems, _mon chere_." She whispered back. They stared at each other a moment more, faces hovering close though he daren't remove his mask and kiss her. Erik pulled back suddenly, and yanked her back out of the shadows, remaining in the dark himself.

"Do you? Then why is it, I wonder, that you pulled me so hurriedly out of the _charming _company gathered outside?"

Her smile was sharp, "I thought a bloodbath this early in the fete was in rather poor taste. And they do so love to tear mysterious arrivals to shreds. Poor dear Erik, I did not want you to be made Fox for their hunt."

"How thoughtful of you." His dark voice dripped acid.

"Hmm, yes, I rather thought so too. But nicety's hardly my strong point so I'd advice you not to take such for granted."

Whatever might have been Erik's reply or the outcome of their proximity was broken by a commotion in the hall as guests were led into one of the sitting rooms Lady Winterwood had had prepared.

"Hero! There you are, darling." Moira's voice sounded across the hall and a few curious guests turned to watch as the Winterwood matriarch hurried over to her elder daughter. Erik hastily faded deeper into the shadows and Hero relented, not yanking him back. She felt it was far too soon for him to be subjected to her mother.

Giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek, Moira left her no speaking turn, "Where were you, daughter? Didn't you think to come and greet us, when you arrived?! Let me take a look at you." She pulled Hero into the light of the corridor before inspecting her critically. She frowned delicately. "Look at you! Why, you are painfully drawn and so peakish looking! Whatever have you been doing with yourself?! I shall have to write to your aunt and ask…Oh! . And what's this? Is that your _traveling_ gown? Why haven't you changed, my dear?! Unacceptable. You must go prepare yourself for company at once! I shall call for a bath to be brought up. Your father had new plumbing put in you know. The sort to carry water down. But it's far too crowded to bother with such fancies…."

Hero didn't bother interrupting as her mother prattled one, pulling her along in the direction of the stairs. She could feel Erik's amused eyes on her and vowed to cut his amusement short.

"…And just you wait, my girl! Such gentlemen have I invited for you! Such fine, well bred young men! So go make yourself presentable and fresh, and then come down. Now hurry and change your gown! How unseemly! Your father is speaking with the guests, you'd best go and greet him after. Your sister is already serving tea I daresay. Such a lovely little hostess she makes." With that Lady Winterwood closed Hero's door in her face. Hero looked around her room. Her mother had had fresh-cut flowers brought in. The windows were opened and her trunks were already carried up, though not yet unloaded due to the locks she'd secured on them. She noted that the coachman had unloaded Erik's trunk as well, though specifically told not to. She smirked.

OOOOOO

"…and traveling alone! With a _man_! With a man wearing _a mask_! Don't deny it, Hero, it's no good. Mrs Howard saw him leave your carriage! How would you explain the rumours whispered amongst the guests?" Lady Moira Winterwood's voice rose as she choked out Hero's latest misdemeanors, in a voice of horrified despair. The Winterwood matriarch, dressed in her finest dark-blue taffeta ball gown embroidered in fine freshwater pearls was pacing across the study, pausing only to shoot her elder daughter affronted glares. Hero had not had to wait long for her mother's return. As soon as Moira heard the latest whispers making the rounds amongst the guests she excused herself to her daughter's room. She'd brought her husband along.

Her cheekbones were flushed red with consternation.

Hero considered her answer a moment, "A very decorated truth, I should expect mother." She replied unperturbedly, while absently adjusting the ivory silk glove on her right hand.

Moira stopped pacing all together. "Well! Now you will be shamed before all the fine prospects I picked for you!" Is there no end to the disgraces you would heap upon yourself and your family? How…"

Hero interrupted with a tinge of exasperation in her voice. "I wouldn't worry, mother. It's bound to be forgotten soon enough. It's only a matter of time before some debutante elopes with a stable boy. In all the excitement, no-one will care a whit about who my guests were."

Before Moira could reply, Lord Winterwood spoke up. He wore a grave expression though his eyes were amused. "Tell me daughter," James Winterwood couldn't hide the irony in his voice, " How is it that you go to live in Wales and come home with a new lot of French friends?"

Hero's smile was identical to his, "Yes, it is rather odd how that came to pass, isn't it Father? I, myself, can't help but smile at some of life's little anecdotes."

"Indeed? Yes. Well we shall have to see about this masked friend of yours. As for the two little ladies that arrived in your name, some of young Andrew's friends seem most take with them. Which is more than I can say for their chaperone in regards to Andrew's friends. Now I'd best return to our guests my dear."

Moira glared at her husband, informing him that he was being no use to her at all, as he left the study.

"And as for your choice of dress…"

Narrowing her eyes she grabbed Hero's arm in a steely grip and dragged her to her closet.

They spent a good fifteen minutes in front of the carved wardrobe. Lady Winterwood was fussing. Hero Winterwood was scowling. It was not uncommon for Moira to voice her distaste for Hero's choice of dress. It amused the girl to picture her mothers face if she were ever to see her in her thieving garb.

"Now daughter, wear the blue! It's just the shade to coax some semblance of colour out of

those steel-grey eyes of yours."

OOOOOO

At last Hero made it back down the grand stairs, wincing. The blue dress had called for especially tight stays and the bustle was unavoidable but there had been no fighting Moira Winterwood and her army of maid servants. She was coiffed to an inch of her life and traveled in a cloud of light French perfume.

She felt the whalebone creak with every step she descended and despaired of breathing. The ancestral portraits all along the wall seemed to gaze balefully down on her. She stopped by a particularly cold one, and nodded a greeting on whimsy, before chuckling to herself and continuing on her way. She did not mark the dark shape watching her from further down the hall. Erik had taken Hero's absence as an opportunity to look over the house more closely. One never knew when a back door would come in handy.

His eyes burned with dark admiration and he did all he could the voices of doubt now louder than ever in his mind. He had known the girl was lovely enough, and yet he felt he had never seen her quite like this before. Thin gloved hand clenched as he watched her enter the ballroom.

The ballroom was teeming with guests, as dinner was served at a long table and guests sat around with plates balanced delicately in their hands. It was a large gilded room with a painted ceiling. The door to the veranda brought a fresh breeze into the room, gently fluttering the lace curtains and a band of musicians played something unobtrusive in the background, waiting for the signal that dancing was to commence. Lady Winterwod had seen to it that the china used was the one ostentatiously emblazoned with the Winterwood crest, the cutlery mercilessly polished just the day before. The fare she'd opted to serve buffet style (cause quite a stir) was lusciously prepared and gorgeously served, as she always took care to out-do the previous years' spread. The exotic aroma drifted through the long room.

Spotting her friends one side of the room, Hero made her way over to them before she could be intercepted by much less desirable company. Aunt Mabel had spotted her across the room and tried to wave her over. Aunt Mabel was Moira's sister and accomplice in the quest of finding the girl husbands. Pretending not to see, Hero looked squarely to her target.

Andrew wore his finest frock coat, the fabric a dark burgundy, his cravat made of French silk. He held a glass of red wine and lifted it in toast when he saw Hero approaching. She had nearly reached her friends when someone grabbed her elbow lightly, drawing her to a halt before hastily letting go and apologizing profusely. He made to bow over her hand then seemed to fumble and change his mind.

"Jonathan." She stated with a forced smile and a strained curtsy, noting the eager face staring down at her.

"Lovely Hero! How do you do! I have not set eyes upon you since last you were in London with Lady Moira, outside Miss Davies frock shop it was. And you have grown ever more beautiful since! What a fine gown you wear tonight."

"You flatter me." As ever, Jonathan Brough, minor Earl from somewhere up north (Hero could not for the life of her recall exactly where ), failed to pick up on the irony. She shot a desperate look at Andrew who seemed to be enjoying a laugh at her expense.

"Oh no, it is you who flatters me with your very presence. I have come, my dear, to place my offer before you once more. Your Mamma and Pappa are most in favour of it, and I did say that I would not give up the quest for your affection and so…"

Hero barely suppressed a weary smile.

"Regrettably, Jonathan," She interrupted knowing he could go on speaking for the next quarter of an hour, and be impossible to stop once he got going, " My answer remains the same. Flattered as I am I must decline."

He didn't seem perturbed.

"Ah, but Miss Hero…were thee to accept me, only say those sweet words, and all the world shall be placed at your feet, and you high above it, so as you need never touch foot upon it again. So elevated above it you shall be…" Jonathan declared, brazenly taking hold of her hand. He was a firm favorite as a suitor with Lady Winterwood who would have arrange the marriage in a thrice if she could. But she knew what a slippery daughter she'd been cursed with and Hero would not be forced into any sort of arranged marriage. The proposal had been the subject of many a disagreement, but the girl had cared nothing for family duty.

Throwing back her head Hero laughed and disengaged from his grip.

"Indeed? But what use is that? What sort of lady would it take to wish to be floated above the world so? I am a woman, not a wisp of cloud. But as floating you imagine me, so I must float away from you, now. You see, Sir Andrew is waiting. Excuse me." With a bright smile at the suddenly disheartened young man, Hero hurried over to her friends. She wondered that her escape had been such an easy one. Perhaps Jonathan was running out of steam in his misguided pursuit of her. Andrew's lips curved into a little smile. Torin's greeting was absent-minded at best.

OOOO

Hero's first day back at Winterwood Manor was to be one of discoveries.

As it turned out, Andrew's grandfather, Sir Jonathan held the old title of the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. It had been claimed through a rather distasteful ancestral scandal, and Sir Jonathan, perhaps simply following tradition, had never used it. Andrew, however had claimed it in his usual pompous manner, adopting that name to go with his family mantel of Darnell. Hero made a point of noting that his lineage seemed to grow nobler every time they met, and enquired as to when his behavior would reflect the fact. They shared a merry laugh at the very ridiculous idea.

Hero stood for quite a while talking with Andrew and a timid looking Torin, keeping an eye out for Erik, who was nowhere to be seen. The main course seamlessly shifted to the dessert selection as servants glided in and out of the room in a soundless procession, and still no sign of the Opera Ghost was to be seen. Hearing Torin sigh faintly she looked up.

She was just in time to see her sister sit at the piano. Lavenna's fresh face reflected her seventeen years beautifully. Moira claimed her fine complexion was due to a well-kept family secret, which Hero knew amounted simply to not wearing powder which her mother claimed did unthinkable things to one's complexion. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were bright. She was shorter than Hero, with chestnut hair like her mother's, piled on her head in elegant curls and decorated at the back with crystal pins.

A respectful hush fell over the room. Everyone knew the younger Winterwood girl played the piano exquisitely. Hero resisted the urge to smirk. Meg and Germaine came to stand with the trio, followed in their wake by many admiring pairs of eyes. Andrew smiled delightedly at them, but Torin's gaze remained fixed on the girl at the pianoforte

Lavenna had a lovely singing voice. Aiming at getting some dessert, Andrew, Meg and Germaine made their way over to the dessert table, followed by a reluctant Torin who somehow ended up near the piano instead. As the candles were dimmed for the performance the Opera Ghost came to join her. They were in the shadows as usual, and out of the common line of sight,

Erik stood close behind Hero in the darkened room as they watched Lavenna play, nimble fingers dancing across the piano keys.

"She plays _Death and the maiden_" His voice was a hiss across her skin.

"So she does. I imagine you think it biographic." Hero said, closing her eyes to listen. Her voice held the faintest tinge of dryness. She leaned back against Erik. One of his long hands rested at the nape of her neck. She could feel him tremble slightly at their proximity, and his breath turn uneven.

Feeling her warm pulse under his cold gloved fingers Erik had to remind himself to breathe. He could not name the strange feeling in his chest though he knew well the cloying disbelief in his head. Here he was, Erik! The Monster! Death himself! Standing in the middle of a public gathering holding a living, breathing woman to him.

Yellow eyes drifted over the other guests. Some stood listening to the music with rapt attention, others stood, heads bent, speaking in quiet voices. The candle light, chosen by Moira who did not like the harsh new electric lighting that was being installed in some of the wealthy households, reflected off the women's jewels and the glasses of punch many of the guests held in their gloved hands. He was surprised to see Little Marguerite Giry standing off to the side, speaking in hushed whispers to the Darnell boy. Her eyes glittered to rival many of the diamonds in the room.

At her own throat Meg wore a thin string of pearls. It was genuine, Erik knew, and had once belonged to her mother given as a token of love by the late Monsieur Giry. Many times while passing through the night her had seem Antoinette sit at her little desk, fingering the pearls, her face showing a sadness she had never revealed during the day.

Marguerite looked up at him and he saw recognition and fear flash through her eyes, though whether it was due to his presence or his proximity to her friend in particular, he could not tell. Not knowing why he did so, the Phantom tilted his head at the ballet rat in the faintest of movements.

"What lovely jewels they wear." Hero's voice was pitched only for Erik to hear. He stiffened slightly, knowing that the teasing note in her voice did not mean she wouldn't carry out the implication. The hand that had come to rest at her waist tightened its grip.

"Don't you _dare_, my dear." His reply was low and threatening. The girl laughed faintly.

Lavenna's last piece had come to an end, to be replaced by the musicians who had been playing faintly in the background all through dinner and people began moving to the sitting room or the lit veranda to enjoy the unusually warm night. The music was picking up into a waltz and some couples began to more to the dance floor

Erik reluctantly moved away from Hero, who turned to face him.

"Your sister plays adequately." He stated, "Though her fingers could do with more flexibility and she lacked a certain degree of empathy."

Hero chuckled "I hope you won't be telling her as much in mysteries notes left on her dresser. Nor mother. She doesn't take well to criticism of her youngest." Lady Winterwood had engaged some of the finest music teachers in London to instruct Lavenna.

Erik's eyes sparked with a devilish light but before he could speak Hero heard her name called across the room and saw Moira hurrying towards them. Hero glanced to her right to find Erik gone.

Lady Winterwood had been watching her daughter like a hawk. She knew Hero too well to be mortified by the unacceptable proximity the odd Frenchman had stood at, or the appalling display her fool of a daughter was making. She was thankful that her guests were too distracted to pay her daughter any heed, but she also knew it was only a matter of time, and then Hero would have no chance of marriage at all. Unfortunately she knew her daughter's reaction if she were to be reprimanded. Hero delighted in pushing her towards an early grave. Seeing her opportunity she did not let it slip by, pasting a smile on her face.

"Why, Hero darling, wherever did your gentleman friend go? Your father and I think it only proper to be introduced to him. I see you've spoken to Jonathan Brough! I trust you were gracious with him, he is such a lovely boy. And may I say what charming friends you have! And here I was mutely despairing of the company you keep." Moira whispered to her daughter merrily, gesturing elegantly with her parasol.

Hero was confused. _Charming?_ Apart from possibly Meg and Germaine she was hard-pressed to think of any of her friends as particularly charming.

"And a noblewoman…"

"Mother, who-"

"Ah! There she is. Madame La Comtesse!"

Hero blanched, face frozen in shock, knowing already whom she would see once she turned around.

Christine was resplendent. Having feigned a lost invitation she was readily let in as soon as she spoke her name. She'd also been given a most lovely room as lodging. The Frenchwoman was the talk of the guests, with her fine silk gown and her hair like gold.

Christine smiled at the Winterwood girl's obvious shock. It had been more than worth the arduous journey and the terrible barge.

"Hero, my dear little friend, how delightful to see you once more."

Recovering, Hero bared her teeth in a smile that was more a sneer. "Christine! How _lovely_ of you to join us. I trust this is little party will not bore you? It isn't much compared to some of the _fetes_ so popular at the Opera." Christine smiled at the barbed insult.

Excusing herself to let them catch up and entirely too delighted, Lady Winterwood left to speak with her cousin Susannah, whom she had just spotted being led off the dancefloor.

Eyes flashing, Hero grabbed Christine's arm in a way that was sure to bruise and dragged the other woman out into the empty hallway.

"What are you doing here?!" Hero hissed furiously as soon as they were alone. She took care to keep her voice low.

Christine chuckled darkly. It didn't suit her. "I told you I would not be left behind. And as your _friends_ saw fit to leave me all the same, than I shall go with you."

Hero didn't get a chance to answer as the Phantom appeared soundlessly at her side. He stared at Christine. The Comtesse straightened her shoulders, looking splendid.

"Christine?" Erik stared.

"Hello, Erik."

Hero's hand clenched as she did her best to resist the urge to smack to smug expression off the Comtesse' face.

OOOO

**Dum dum dum...**

**So…what happens next…? **

**What did you guys think? Drop me a review! Opinions, suggestions, criticism all welcome! Reviews make me happy, and encourage quick updates. Lol Not to mention they're just fun. **

**Till we meet again!**


	4. Something wicked

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it…yet. evil little grin**

**A/N: Here it is! Hope you guys like it. Tell me what you think, remember, reviews inspire! And make me feel happy.**

**Hot4Gerry: **No, lol, Hero definitely won't take kindly to Christine trying to manipulate Erik. Just imagine how much fun they shall have of the way to Persia. Throw-down indeed. Haha! It will be interesting to see Erik's reaction too. Though perhaps Hero will take a subtler route than is expected…

**Thanks for reading, everyone! Enjoy and drop me a line.**

**Liriel**

**Chapter 3: Something wicked**

Everyone had noticed Andrew's sneaking around the Opera House, and thanks to a solid foundation in picking up gossip Hero knew that it was to see a certain Marguerite Giry. According to Germaine, they had run into each other in the Garnier while Andrew had been heading off to lunch with his newest friend, the Former Daroga of Mazendaran. He had even braved his famed disdain of French cuisine in order to visit with Meg and take her to lavish lunches. Which is why he was extremely put out upon observing a scowling Hero dragging Christine de Chagny out of the room.

Andrew had an eye well trained for spotting trouble a mile off. An opportunist to the core, he couldn't help himself. He cursed Hero for picking the most inopportune of moments to make a fuss.

Looking back at the ballerina standing so very close to him, he sighed regretfully. Germaine had wondered off somewhere, Torin was drooling over Lavenna Winterwood and that wily old badger of a chaperone Mme Giry had produced for the two rats was nowhere to be seen. Meg was looking most fetching and the moment was perfect. Cursing under his breath again, he took Meg's hand.

"My dear, I hate to cut this short, but there seems to be some sort of face-off between our friends out in the hallway and I think it best to interfere before Hero does something else to shock English high society."

Meg looked surprised but nodded, letting him lead her through the crowd.

As is were they seemed to arrive just in time. The silence out in the hall was heavy with dread, its sole occupants frozen in a manner which could only suggest an impending explosion.

"Christine!" Meg couldn't help but voice her surprise, and it came out as a gasp. As one, the three turned to the ballerina and her companion.

"Meg!" The Comtesse seemed every bit as taken aback. "Meg? Is that really you? But my dear friend, what are you doing here?"

Hero shot Andrew a dark look. She'd had her heart set on having it out with Christine. Raising an eyebrow her friend looked pointedly at the studiously disinterested doormen standing at the ballroom door. Hero sighed in defeat. She had to admit, he had a point. The servants were a hotpot of gossip on the best of days. And it wouldn't do to make such a display of herself, especially here and now. She was cynical but she was not stupid. The shock of coming face to face with the Comtesse, the party and the long journey had all been wearing on her nerves and she had all but lost her self-restraint.

Erik watched the little golden woman breathlessly. Christine was looking lovely. And he knew she was there because she wanted something of him. He could even guess at what it was she wanted. But old habits die hard. And old feelings had a way of holding on with steel claws. He had been too dumb-struck to react, and Hero had seemed intent on reacting for the both of them. Erik came-to from his contemplation to find Hero's grey eyes scan his masked face anxiously. The concern in her eyes constricted his heart. It was strange and unsettling. She looked as though she could discern his face beneath the black porcelain.

Lips pursed, Hero took his arm. She did not bother glancing at the Frenchwoman, who was now chatting merrily with Meg. Christine seemed oblivious to the frown the ballerina wore. With a final unreadable glance at Hero and Erik, Andrew withdrew after the women, his expression changing to that of guileless good nature as he did so.

Hero's gloved hand squeezed Erik's arm, the candle light adding a sheen to the white silk. His arm was still bone-thin beneath his coat and shirt. They both looked down at her hand. The pair seemed entirely removed from the voices, music and laughter in the next room, as though they stood a continent away. Neither spoke. Then, just as soundlessly, Erik lifted his cold hand, gloved in black leather. Somewhere near-by a clock struck half ten. Neither of the sole occupants of the hallway stirred. An outside observer would swear they had not heard it at all. Slowly he placed his hand atop hers. He knew she felt the deathly chill of his touch through the leather and flimsy silk. She didn't flinch away. It was still a novelty.

Hero looked into his yellow eyes, searching for…_something_. It didn't occur to either to speak. To speak…would have been a travesty. Then suddenly she seemed to close her eyes and exhale, sagging with relief.

Erik stirred her away from the ballroom, towards the room with the French glass doors that led out into the garden. They didn't speak as they walked away from the sounds of merriment and the fresh air in the garden came as a shock.

OOOO

Lord Winterwood had not failed to notice the man hovering so near his daughter for most of the night. While not given to fussing as his wife was, he certainly did not let their behavior go unmarked. There was a familiarity in their gestures, bearing and voices that made him feel uneasy. They seemed oddly connected even when they stood apart. It was not a closeness acceptable between polite acquaintances. Hero was a strong, confident creature, at times even inappropriately so, but she was his daughter, his responsibility. He loved her and would not see her hurt or in disgrace. Furthermore, he knew the way young women lost their heads together with their hearts.

This could end in terrible impropriety. Frowning faintly he endeavored to speak with the man. Scanning the guests for his daughter or her gentleman, James could not spot them.

OOOO

There were crickets chirping somewhere in the grass and a toad leapt across their path and into a near-by hedge. The sky was cloudless, which was a rarity by the usual standard of English weather.

Hero held on to Erik's arm as they walked through the night. Neither seemed inclined to conversation, much less to discuss what had just occurred. There was a strange tension between them, and like violin strings wound too tightly they would snap and lash out at the slightest disturbance.

Their pace was unhurried, and Hero was unconcerned that the skirt of her gown might be stained in the garden. Erik's eyes were faint golden pinpoints in the night.

"Do you think me so fickle?" His voice was cool and heavy. The trees around them seemed to swallow up the words.

Hero kept from wincing at the hurt in his voice and thought about the question. She thought about denying everything, but that would be childish. She stopped and faced him.

"_No_. But I know you loved her. I have it on good authority you have killed for her. She is like a ghost, a haunting you cannot rid yourself of. Just as soon as I'm sure we are free of her, she re-appears. What am I to think?" She sighed, and looked away into the gloom, "You have begun to live, but you can just as easily choose death. And I don't want you to." Her voice remained strong, Hero refused to succumb to melodramatics.

She knew now that…she had seen it in his eyes…but this wasn't about what she did and didn't know. This was about assumptions and misconceptions. And about those cloying, momentary flashes of doubt.

Erik took in the line of her shoulders and her far-away gaze. Defeat didn't become her. Especially not on his behalf. It was astounding how easily Hero could misinterpret the situation. He had seen the concern on her face. Concern for _him_. Aside from the Daroga Erik was hard pressed to name any who had shown him concern in his long life. More so, she seemed _concerned_ that he would leave her. He hissed in irritation. Such situations were beyond him. The woman was irrational and unreasonable, and he himself could be far worse. They would perhaps be better off apart. Certainly, she would be happier. But he did not want her to go on thinking…

With a long finger under her chin he forced her to meet his glowing eyes.

"_No_." He echoed her. "It seems Erik is not so fickle as all that. And I don't know about you my dear, but life is certainly holding more appeal of late than the tomb. Think what you will."

They were close now, and he could see hope flare in her eyes, replacing the relief that had taken hold back in the house. He didn't like the relief, though he didn't know what went through her mind in those moments, and he was certain she would refuse to explain.

The tension seemed to pass out of them just as suddenly as it had appeared and she snatched the mask off his face with nimble fingers. This kiss was a soft one, very different from the dangerous charge of their embrace earlier that day. His hand at her waist, he seemed to sigh at the feeling of her warm form against him. Breaking the kiss, Hero came back to herself with a warm smile. Handing him back his mask she pulled him hurriedly back towards the house. The evening seemed doomed to irrationality. Ignoring the couples dotting the well-lit benches outside the ballroom, Hero continued straight into the throng inside.

"Come, Erik, the night is nearly over and you have not yet asked me for a dance." The strained heaviness of earlier seemed forgotten, and Hero's eyes turned teasing as she leaned in closer, "Were you to ask me, I promise I shall say yes."

OOOO

Christine watched the couple (what a ridiculous notion!) from the moment they had reappeared. She was sure now that the Winterwood girl was a fool. To go walking off into the night with _Erik_! Her eyes followed them across the dance floor in irritation, but she reminded herself that she was here and well on her way to save her beloved Raoul and what did the Phantom's pet matter to her?

OOOO

The company gathered in the library that night was a strange one, and had a slightly tense quality to it. Hero's mood was stormy, not least because the whalebone had by now become one with her ribs. But she had not dared be rid of it. It would be unpleasant enough if her mother were to stumble across the gathering as it were, but she was certain to never get a moment's peace if she were found wearing her dressing gown!

"What is this all about, Hero?" Aidan had voiced everyone's question, shooting an uncertain look at the Phantom. Erik chose to hover over by the book shelves behind Hero, seemingly paying everyone no heed. Aidan had been in his particular profession long enough to know better.

Dominic and Andrew stared at her curiously. Flynn was looking thoughtfully into a glass of Lord Winterwood's fine port to which he had unceremoniously helped himself. Torin seemed to be paying no attention whatsoever.

Hero's weariness melted into a smile. "Well," She began with some relish, "If you're in that sort of frame of mind, there seems to be a new adventure brewing. Which I found myself involved in quite by accident." Erik snorted, but she chose to ignore him, "Do you remember Madame Jeanne Dantes?"

"I don't believe we've ever..." Dominic sounded thoughtful, "Ah! But of course! The strange pale woman. The seer!"

"Yes, it is she, I think. But is it any wonder Dom's forgotten, when we are all far too taken with our Hero." Flynn contributed unhelpfully, raising a suggestive eyebrow. "Ah, Monsieur Erik, you have stolen my truest love from me." Flynn went on to lament. Hero and the rest of the Englishmen snorted, while Erik leveled a contemplative glance at the shorter man.

Hero's smile was pained, "Have you been talking with Jonathan Brough, Charly?" She asked dryly. Flynn did his utmost to look affronted. Now that conversation seemed to be progressing Erik moved to sit next to Hero.

"De Lascy's right." Andrew agreed ignoring Flynn, "We met while trying to locate you, Hero. During that Illuminati business. What a strange woman she was! Very somber, I thought. The Persian introduced us. He had been very certain her help was important though he hadn't even known her name at the time. As a matter of fact he _has _ mentioned the lady on several occasions since. Fine fellow, Nadir Khan!"

The Phantom laughed derisively in his head. Clearly the boy had never had to bear with one of Nadir's nagging lectures.

The girl nodded, "Yes, it's the very same lady I speak of. As it were, it is Monsieur Dantes who has gone missing this time, very much kidnapped…" She happily re-counted the details of what was to be her new adventure, while her friends listened patiently. "…They should be well on their way to Persia, and we are to meet them there."

"That does sound promising, indeed. Just think of the treasures to be found in Persia! And I see how you have little choice in helping the Comtesse, but why invite here when you so clearly dislike her?"

The thief shot Flynn a sour look, "I didn't. Apparently the others left without her, and she has decided to saddle us with her company instead."

Erik was greatly puzzled. This did not seem at all like the fragile, timid girl he had known all these years.

"And you are asking whether we'd care to join your little voyage?" Andrew observed, smirking, "Well it sounds like a fine adventure, Hero, but I just don't know…"

"He's dreading being so far away from his sweetheart, no doubt."

"To the devil with you, Dom!" The nobleman cried, flustered, while the others laughed.

"Well, Hero, how could we possibly resist your invitation? Pay Andy no heed! Besides, he'll have Torin to speak to on the voyage. I'm certain the two of them will find plenty to speak of!"

Starting at his name, the newest member of their group looked guiltily at his friends. He had missed parts of the conversation. "Persia, was it?" he tried to sound nonchalant.

"I've a mind to leave the soiree early, in fact." Hero said, "I couldn't stand much more of mother's meddling."

"A mind, have you?" drawled Andrew, "I have my doubts sometimes, dear lady, but since you insist…"

Ignoring her friend, Hero went on, "It is to go on for another three days, officially. Though as far as I'm concerned three years is a better description."

Supplying the voice of reason, Aidan asked how the girl meant to explain their sudden departure.

"Aidan is right." Hero shook her head regretfully. "It will be just as well that we remain until the end."

They stayed a little longer, talking and laughing, and when they rose to depart to their rooms, none noticed the sudden movement near the barely-ajar door, as the figure fled hurriedly toward the stairs.

OOOO

Too weary to argue, aware still of the strangeness that had passed between them in the garden, Hero had the servants carry Erik's trunk into the empty bedroom across the corridor and four doors away from hers. They stood in the little sitting room that adjoined Hero's bedroom. Ignoring the curious looks the maidservants shot the masked stranger standing next to Miss Hero, the couple said nothing. Erik's eyes roamed across the planes of Hero's face. The room was quickly made ready and Hero was left alone with the Phantom. Erik watched warily as something shifted in her grey eyes.

Before either of them could register her having moved at all, she was tearing away his mask and seizing his cold lips in a fervent kiss. Her pale hands clutched the lapels of his dark coat. She was trying to convey something for which words were not enough. His own hands ran treacherously along her back, even as he tried to still himself, knowing he had no right to touch her. To taint her. Any thought of resisting was swept away as a wild longing flooded him at her touch. The thick door had been left open by the servants for propriety's sake but with one swift movement Erik pinned Hero against the wall behind it, crushing her dress. An involuntary gasp escaped her as Hero's eyes flew open to meet his blazing ones. His black mask was on the floor, long-forgotten. His mouth hungrily descended on hers as he pulled her closer yet and a fire sparked in her stomach. She could feel it surging through her veins. He tasted of dessert wine and passion and darkness and Hero's head swam with the overwhelming intensity of his kiss.

Someone passed noisily in the hallway outside, laughing softly, and they were suddenly very aware of their surroundings.

Breaking the kiss Erik felt his breath catch as he realized how quickly the situation had moved beyond his control. He stared at her flushed face and parted lips. The damned girl was supposed to _stop_ him. To be furious and frightened and outraged by his unwelcome invasion. She was meant to send him away and save both of them from _willing_, consuming damnation and instead she was _willingly_ pulling them both past the point of no return. Past the point of _sanity_. How easy it would be to claim the girl as his own. For all her brazenness he wondered again if she would be as willing as all that. And yet…she had let him so _close_… Hero noticed that he was shaking. Running a finger along her cheek, Erik suddenly tore himself away from her, striding quickly for the door.

"Sleep well." Her whisper stilled his steps, but he did not turn around. Hero knew the irony had hit home. Chuckling, she closed the door to her rooms.

OOOO

Hero woke up to find a rose on her dresser. Blood red. A long, black satin ribbon was tied around the green stem. Picking up the flower, she chuckled softly and went out into the empty sitting room. His mask, which they had forgotten on her floor, was gone. Pulling a thick dressing gown over her sleeping garments she lifted a corner of her heavy curtains to look outside. The morning was pre-dawn grey, and the grounds were empty except for a lone gardener.

She was half-way out her door before changing her mind and turning back to her closet. Getting caught outside her room in naught but her nightgown would not do at all. Selecting a pale-green day dress and a corset that required minimal tying and clever fastenings in the front, she regarded herself in the mirror. Relishing her show of propriety with much amusement, she picked up a warm grey shawl and left her rooms. Nearing Erik's door she took care to keep her steps as silent as possible.

The two young housemaids stood by the door, speaking in hushed voices. Hero caught something about a mask. They would pause and shoot looks at the door before ducking their heads again to carry on their whispered debate. They had not seen her approach. Smirking darkly, Hero cleared her throat.

Yelping and jumping in the air, the young women spun to face Hero, who raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Miss Hero!" A stumbled curtsy later, the one Hero knew to be called Mary hurried to explain.

"We were-"

"We were just-" A flustered Kathy began simultaneously with her friend.

"You were just…what?" Hero drawled, glad she had found them before they'd done something foolish. "Thinking of taking a peek at our guest?"

Heads bowed respectfully, the women said nothing, no doubt expecting to be reported to the butler. Or even worse, to the Mistress herself.

"I imagine you thought to yourselves, what harm could possibly come of it?" The Winterwood girl leaned forward conspirationally, "But you never really know, do you? Strangers in masks…you just _never know_." She leaned back, chiding softly, "Not to mention you might have offended our guest and embarrassed mother. Do you really want to lose you position here?"

"No, miss." Kathy squeaked.

Hero nodded, "Well, in that case it's for the best that it was not mother who found you here. No more lurking around doors, if you please. Good morning to you." They stared at her as she carried on down the corridor in a rustle of skirts.

It wasn't difficult to guess where Erik was to be found, and the music flowing through the carefully shut door proved her guess to be correct. The house would be waking soon and she hurried her steps. The men planned to go hunting, setting out in the morning. Hero knew it was more an excuse to saddle horses and go stumbling about through the woods, they rarely ever caught anything, but came back merry all the same, talking of the exhilaration of the hunt. The ladies would be expected to sit in the morning room, and follow elegant pursuits until the afternoon, when Moira had planned a picnic out on the lawns. Hero dreaded it immensely and was grateful to snatch a moment with the Phantom.

He did not look up as she walked into the empty ballroom though she knew he had to have heard her. She walked closer, footsteps echoing across the empty room barely heard over the music. Erik was playing something bittersweet and sweeping. She didn't recognize it. Watching his long pianist's fingers dance effortlessly over the keys, she sat next to him on the piano bench.

"Did you sleep well?" He enquired, glancing at her. She had thought him too lost in his music to bother with conversation

"Oh, yes. Though I daresay it could have been better." Hero smiled at him daringly. Erik chuckled darkly low in his throat. It was meant to be unsettling.

"I though the rose amusing, also. Beautiful, of course, I don't know where you manage to find such perfect flowers, but most amusing."

"I though you might. As to procuring it, a magician never reveals his secrets." She thought his voice sounded a touch darker that necessary.

"So long as Jamieson, the chief gardener, does not reveal it for you." She laughed, "He is quite handy with a pitchfork."

"What concern." Erik replied drolly.

"Hmm. Yes. I've grown rather fond of you it seems." She teased, watching his hands again. "Most of the men mean to go hunting later." She informed him, "Which is to say to stumble tipsily through the woods."

"How gauche." He remarked.

The music trailed away in diminuendo.

Hero's reply was interrupted by another voice.

"You play so very beautifully." Lavenna stated and blushed at her own boldness. Hero turned to face her sister who stood in the doorway, failing to look even remotely embarrassed at being caught alone in a room with a gentleman. Erik snorted softly and said nothing.

Lavenna's blush deepened. Both she and Hero were about to speak when Andrew's cheerful voice interrupted.

"Ah! There you are. Breakfast is to be served in the dining room before the silly hunt business." He announced, bowing jauntily to Lavenna, smiling at Hero and nodding to the thin dark man at the piano. "I say! We ought to skip the hunt and have our own little gathering in the gardens. Badminton is all the rage in London."

The Opera Ghost did not seem enthused, having had no intention of attending any hunts. Badminton indeed!

OOOO

They had not been seriously beaten, only a bit roughed. Raoul wondered how much more he could take. He had been severely disoriented as he came-to in what appeared to be a dark compartment of some sort. He could taste a metallic tang in his mouth. No doubt, it was chloroform. Last he could remember he had been shaking hands with Dantes and de Chance regarding their latest incoming shipment from Persia. Then…nothing.

He shook his aching head carefully to clear it, and winced as a lock of his greasy hair fell in his face. He could _smell_ it. Raoul had always taken care of selecting a distinguished scent for his hair, and as to the grease…he shuddered.

Wondering where he was, he couldn't help the thought that there might be rats about. He'd always hated rats, but never so much as after his venture in to the Opera Ghost's lair. Attempting to move his arms he found that he was tied to something. A pillar of some sort. From what he could make out in the dim light there was another man on his right. Later he discovered that there were two other men. Dantes and de Chance.

A door opened, and the light flooding from beyond was too bright, forcing him to close his eyes and give an involuntary hiss.

"Ah, he's awake." Observed an accented voice from the doorway. He could see a tall, shadowed figure.

"Is he? Well then, let's see if our friend feels conversational, shall we?" Another voice answered from beyond. That had been…days ago, maybe. The Comte de Chagny couldn't really be sure.

OOOO

Rookheeya, Nadir reflected as he waited for his coffee to be served, had had beautiful eyes. Dark like the coffee he was now waiting for, and yet bright like the finest eastern star. Even years after she had passed beyond this life the memory of his beloved wife was flawlessly clear whenever he thought of her. He didn't know what brought on this contemplation except he that couldn't help noticing that Madame Danes…_Jeanne_….**Madame Dantes**… had eyes of clear green. They were dull with worry and an emotion he knew very well. Self reproach.

He wondered if he should question her about it. He thought that he could guess at what was going through her mind.

They were alone. Darius had left to go for a stroll, claiming the need to stretch his legs, but Nadir knew that his servant was scouting the train, marking points and passengers of importance. And so they were alone. As alone as one could be in the dining carriage.

"Madame?" He ventured softly.

Jeanne looked up as though his voice had startled her.

"Are you well?" The gentleness in his voice did not abate her guilt.

"As well as can be." She answered earnestly.

"You blame yourself." Surprise and worry flashed momentarily across her face before she schooled it into her usual expression of detached calm. Nadir Khan was a clever man, and she was just starting to realize exactly _how_ clever.

"Shouldn't I?" Had she been Christine de Chagny or Hero Winterwood she would have laughed bitterly, but as it were she just looked at him. "You would say not. You would not understand. You see, Monsieur Khan, from where I stand it's all very clear. Is it coincidence that my husband is kidnapped along with the Comte de Chagny and Mademoiselle Winterwood's acquaintance? I don't believe in coincidence and idle games of chance. No. No, Monsieur. What happened is a _result_. A reaction, if you will, to my having meddled." She didn't seem incline to say more as their beverages were served. Delicately picking up her cup of chamomile tea, Jeanne stared out of the window. It was midday and the scenery outside seemed to suddenly command her attention.

"Meddled?" Nadir took a grateful drink of his coffee. He liked it dark and bitter.

Her green eyes alighted back on his face. She sighed, "Yes, meddled. I have the Sight, but that is all. I see what I see but I do not actively interfere. Such a life would be a thing of strife and misery. I observe and occasionally I inform. I made an exception in your case, because it seemed right to do so. And now my husband is lost. Such is the price of interference." She didn't mention how her husband felt in regards to her Sight. It was not important to.

Had Nadir respected her any less he would have felt pity for her. He was a man of logic where he could help it, and he did not believe in destiny, or at least not in the solid form that Jeanne seemed to see it as. It was not right that such a grand lady be put into the position she was suddenly in.

Jeanne shook her head as though to clear it. Her eyes lit up faintly, and he thought they were beautiful. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Khan, I should not have told you that. I have dissipated what merry spirits we were in this morning. Come, let us speak of something pleasant. Persia, I understand, is a beautiful country…"

OOOO


	5. Bad Habit

**Disclaimer:**** Don't own anything except the original characters and plot.**

**A/N: ****It has been ages since I've done anything for this story. I was blocked and, in between varsity and my other stories, I completely forgot about it. Then I discovered it a few days ago and found that I had all sorts of new ideas. I was also somewhat horrified by the typos and grammatical errors in the previous chapters and **_**Semblance**_** but I haven't time to go back and correct them. Perhaps some day. Still, my interest has been re-awakened and I'm going to continue it. I hope to update as often as time allows, but being as I'm doing Hons, time is erratic.**

**Brownies to anyone who recognized the title**.

**Chapter 4: Bad Habit**

Hero Winterwood was well-known for her exuberance and contrariness. This did not stop the elder ladies from frowning and muttering their disapproval when the girl decided to forgo the customary and expected gathering in the morning room.

It would be a wonder indeed, Lady Mayfield pointed out to her friend Mrs Henrietta Hall, if the girl managed to find a husband. She might think her chickens counted with young Andrew or one of his friends, but it was certain none would move to marry her, though they may well consider her fine company now.

Mrs Hall, who strongly agreed with Lady Mayfield on everything, supported her in this view also by adding that she doubted even the Winterwood fortune would be enough to persuade any young man (save those in the direst of circumstances) to make young Hero his bride.

Both ladies agreed that it really was a pity and terrible burden for the genteel Lady Winterwood to bear. And, indeed, for the younger Miss Winterwood too, who possessed a much more delightful nature than her sister. They subsided into watching Lavenna, seated next to Miss Violet Croft, carefully embroidering a pattern of pink roses. The younger Winterwood girl had politely declined Andrew's invitation to venture out onto the lawns. Instead she shot quick doleful glances out the window, where her sister was seated in a wicker chair amongst her friends, watching a badminton match between Charles Flynn and Aidan Barrett.

OOO

Hero told herself firmly that she wasn't disappointed by Erik's disappearance. It was, she knew, most unreasonable to expect him to remain with her amidst a crowd of her friends. It was not in him to do so, and she knew that it was selfish to force him. Already she had asked a lot of him, or perhaps, 'tricked' would be the better term. Still, she wished he would not have disappeared.

Charlie and Aidan had begun an amiable squabble over Aidan's game, while the others picked sides and called out comments. Excusing herself from her friends, Hero went in search of Erik. She wandered around the familiar house and grounds, carefully avoiding the morning room. When she found him at last, she couldn't help wondering if it was only because he let her.

He was on the roof. The latch in the trapdoor had not been difficult to force. The basement could be intruded into by servants, and his room was far too obvious a place. But the roof was perfect. Expanse of shingles and sky, and the vast green in the distance. Cool wind blew at his mask, and mercifully the sun was hidden behind a thick layer of cloud. A long hand absently fingered the pendant in his pocket. It gave him a sick sort of comfort to have it with him. Always the choice. Always the threat. Finding a suitable perch, Erik pulled out the box of Life and Death. Or was it Death and Life?

The girl didn't speak, watching him sadly. His cough had become slightly lighter in the past few weeks, the result of her forcing him out of the damp and dust of his basement. But it was far from gone, and she knew it could easily return. She kept her face impassive, carefully masking the twist of melancholy that washed over her. She wondered if he would ever stop trying to kill himself one way or another.

At least he had not noticed his drug was being diluted, which said a lot for the raggedness of his current state of mind.

"You make a very dubious statue, mademoiselle." The whispery voice startled her out of her reverie.

"You make a very dubious corpse." Hero countered, coming to stand closer to him. She raised an eyebrow at the box, but said nothing of it. The Opera Ghost ignored her. With practiced, unconscious movements, he had the syringe of morphine prepared and the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, a leather tourniquet securely fastened around the thin pale flesh. Hero hadn't moved.

"I trust privacy would be too much to ask for."

"Oh, yes. You think I will simply leave you to it?" She murmured, looking at the needle-marked, bruised underside of his forearm. A shiver ran up her spine. She reached out and ran a warm finger along the bruised skin, surprising them both. Erik hissed, and yanked his arm back.

He stared at her tensely, his shoulders hunched. The syringe had fallen from his hand onto the roof with a soft _clank_. The delicate glass remained unbroken, and Hero contemplated shattering it under the heel of her boot. Erik still had not moved from his tense position. Something hung in the air between them. Hero released her breath sharply and with another long look at him turned and went back to the trapdoor.

Erik listened to the rustle of her skirts before seizing the little glass flute and plunging the needle into his arm.

His own breath escaped in a relieved sigh as he felt the morphine surge though his veins. A calm, sharpened awareness descended upon him. He could still feel Hero's finger on his arm, and its warmth burned him. From where he sat, he could make out the shapes on the lawns beyond. The girl had rejoined her friends.

OOO

Little Marguerite Giry was on the lawns, also. She had on an off-white gown trimmed in some fine lace. Her mamman had managed to procure the delicate trim for her the previous year as a birthday gift and Meg could only guess at how much it had cost her. It was her favourite dress and thus rarely worn. But that morning she felt only right that she should wear it, though she didn't know why exactly. Her dark hair contrasted beautifully with the pale fabric and her eyes sparkled at the young man she was speaking with.

Germaine sat a bit away discussing parasols with Hero's sister who had come out to join them and Aunt Greta was inside with the older ladies. Andrew and Meg took great advantage of their moment of solitude. But conversation was always more difficult in the daylight and they struggled for words.

"I must commend you, on your choice of dress, my dear." Andrew murmured softly with a smile, enjoying the blush that stained Meg's cheeks.

"Thank you, monsieur. It was a birthday gift from my mother."

"Birthday? Then I declare I owe you a present!" The young man smiled mischievously, and Meg blushed even more. This was quite far from familiar opera house flirtation and she felt very much out of her depth.

The party on the lawns remained, laughing and talking well into the late afternoon, until it was almost time for supper and the ladies excused themselves to freshen up. Hero's friends did not remark on the rigid line of her shoulders or the slight edge to her laugh.

Andrew watched his old friend curiously, wondering what had put Hero out of sorts. He knew it had to do with that Phantom of hers. But he knew Hero well enough to know better than to ask. And so he devoted his attentions to the pretty dancer whose conversation was much more enjoyable than to be had with the other young ladies in attendance.

Hero, bristling quietly with annoyance considering excusing herself from what even frivolous thing her mother had planned for the guests after supper, but decided that she should not bother. So instead she trailed towards the house, only half-listening to what Germaine was saying to her about the wonderful picnic.

Yellow eyes watched her figure from the roof, lit with a little too much clarity. Erik had no desire to sit another meal amongst the strangers with their probing eyes, and the Comtesse with her determined, seeking gaze. He could feel the whispers they aimed at his back, the wild speculation. His blood was pounding furiously in his ears and strong hands clenched. There was music in his head.

When the sun had set he slipped into his room unnoticed, knowing Hero would have little trouble conjuring some excuse for his absence. And should she find it inconvenient, really it was a lesson worth learning for the girl who thought she could tame Ghosts. She might try to summon, like some warped Faustus, but he was not obliged to appear.

Once in the dark room, he did not bother lighting any candles. Finding that he missed Ayesha's enigmatic gaze and the quiet peace of her presence, the Opera Ghost went straight for his violin case. He needed no light as his long, callused fingers found their place on the strings, his right hand holding the bow delicately. He was one with the instrument. Closing his eyes, the only source of light in the dark room, he let music flow through him.

OOO

Erik had been correct in guessing Hero's feelings in regard to his absence. Had she given it logical thought, she would have found that she could hardly blame him, but she was not in the mood to be reasonable. Smiling tightly when her mother quietly observed the absence of Hero's apparent beau, she said something about his feeling under the weather.

Frowning, Lady Winterwood pointedly wished him swift recovery, before turning to talk to Mrs Gordon sitting on her left. Another pair of eyes, blue and curious did not leave Hero's face so easily. Christine wondered what the real reason for the absence was, though she felt she could well venture a good guess. The fact that the girl had managed to trick Erik into appearing at the party at all was impressive, she grudgingly decided, and it was little wonder the success did not last. Enjoying the annoyance that was momentarily on the girl's face, Christine delicately lifted a spoonful of the prawn bisque currently being served.

Hero shot the former diva a cloying smile before turning to her own meal. She was feeling edgy and restless, wanting to go and talk with Erik. Or perhaps to have a good argument. Germaine and Meg, seated either side of her at the long table, seemed to notice her distraction, asking her if she was well, before exchanging knowing looks over her head. The ballet rats were nothing if not wise to troubles of the heart. They kept up as light a stream of conversation as was appropriate and Hero was glad that they did. She couldn't wait for supper to be over with.

Meg caught the few awkward glances Christine had shot at her, and reciprocated with the same. Things were uneasy between them now. And Meg wondered how much her friendship with Hero was the cause of the rift between them.

After supper followed an evening of games. Card tables were set up for some of the guests and charades were taking place in the far corner of the sitting room. Some guests were to leave on the morning and so chose merely to converse amongst themselves, exchanging last bits of gossip and planning travel routes. The gentlemen had, for the most part, retired to Lord Winterwood's study for brandy and cigars. Waiting for everyone to be distracted, Hero slipped out of the room, and made her hurried way upstairs. She could hear the faint music out in the corridor. Knowing Erik kept his doors locked and would probably refuse to open them, she went to her own room to retrieve a set of picks.

Such was the testament to Erik's immersion in his music that the usually vigilant Phantom did not hear the scratching of the pick in the lock. The door was opened and Hero's form stood in the doorway, outlined the well-lit hallway beyond. She wore the pale gown she had worn to supper, and was slipping the picks into a pocket of her dress. Knowing better than to linger in the hallway, the girl stepped inside, shutting the door. She could not tell where Erik had put the key. In fact she could see little in the pitch dark of the room as she slowly moved away from the door. She was about to remark on the gloom when she noticed that Opera Ghost had yet to look at her.

Erik was playing something mournful on his violin. It set Hero's teeth on edge. His eyes closed, though she knew he had to be aware of her.

OOO

Long after the guests had gone to their room, Christine lay in her bed, eyes trained out of the window, where she could see the darker forms of tree leaves against the night sky, rustling in the breeze. Try as she might, she couldn't sleep her head full of a myriad horrors that could at that moment be befalling her Raoul. She regretted the horror stories she had devoured with the other girls in their dormitories during the long winter evenings.

Back then they were a thrill, and one Madame Giry would not have approved of, which only served to add to their appeal. Novels of the Gothic and the macabre circulated amongst the rats as much as romance novels did. La Sorelli took special pleasure in reading the most frightful ones out loud, voice dropping eerily in the appropriate places, while the girls seated around her their white woollen nightgowns shivered, eyes wide. They would have kept their candles lit on those nights if not for the fact that being caught with lit candles and earning the wrath of the ballet mistress was far worse than whatever they thought lurked in the dark.

She also regretted some of the stories she had convinced Erik to tell her. He had always been very careful not to frighten her, or at least not to frighten her too much. But there had always been an edge to his story telling, an edge and many unspoken warnings and implications that chill in her bones.

But now, alone in the strange bedroom, away from the familiarity of her new home and husband, the thrill of those stories was gone and only the numb horror feeding remained. She tried very hard not to think of what her dearest was going through just then and she lay clutching at the goose-down duvet covering her lightly shivering form.

The strangest thing was that when she listened to the silence very carefully over the anxious pounding of her heart she could have sworn she heard haunting strains of violin music carry though the night. It made the hairs on her arms stand up and an involuntary shudder run down her spine. She'd know this music anywhere. Erik. But just when she was sure that she was really hearing it, it would be gone, carried away by the breeze maybe, only to reappear again a few moments later. She had no way of knowing if it was real or the conjuring of her worn and strained imagination. She considered taking laudanum as Erik used to give her whenever she could not sleep.

She wished for a photograph of Raoul, to see his dear face again.

OOO

Listening as Erik played on, Hero considered what she ought to do. Interrupting the music would do more harm than good. With an inaudible sigh and a rustle of fabric she sat on the spacious bed. Watching Erik's impossibly tall outline, waiting for her eyes to adjust a little better to the darkness, she pulled off her silk gloves one after the other, thinking furiously.

She felt a prickle of annoyance, feeling that they could certainly do with a few less riddles and mind games. But neither of them were particularly conventional, and the only place convention would lead them was to a nice house and lace curtains.

She had no desire to end up like the Comtesse. Hero winced. What they needed was a bit of adventure to get Erik's mind off whatever it was he was brooding over. At least he wasn't playing anything requiem-related.

Hero sat patiently, waiting for the Phantom to snap back to reality. She tried to place what he was playing and found that she could not, one of his own compositions perhaps. A strange peace reigned in the room. At last, spotting a candle and a box of matches, she lit it and pulled a book out of a pocket of her dress. The corners of her lips curled slightly as the thought of how positively outraged he would be to find her in his room. She did not know how long she sat there, reading quietly, until at last the melody came to an end on a high, wailing note that carried through the night.

Yellow eyes shot open, like lanterns in the poor lighting. They snapped to her face just as she looked up, and she was sure Erik cursed under his breath. She looked over at the violin case, as he carefully put away his beloved instrument, no doubt carefully composing his next words.

The outrage she expected from him never came. Slowly, gracefully, as though expecting the floor to crumble, he approached Hero. Towering over the girl, he stared down at her enigmatically. Testing her, she thought. He never completely ceased expecting to see fear on her face.

"I'm sorry you weren't at supper. I know why." Her voice sounded strange in the silence, especially after the eldrich music of his violin.

"Do you?" His voice was biting, clearly meant as a warning.

"Yes. And you know what I think about that. About a great many things. But I understand." Rising to her feet to find herself standing almost flush against him, Not letting him move away as he was bound to do, she put her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. Erik stiffened at the intimate gesture. She thought he trembled.

7


	6. Extempore

**A/N: ****Here we go, the next part of the story! :-P Remember, I like hearing what you guys think!**

**Okay, I don't get it, I've been trying to upload this thing for three days and every time I come back, it still says it's only got up to the last chapter. Hopefully this time it will work.**

**Disclaimer: ****Still not mine**

**Chapter 5: Extempore**

The Meddlesome band of Englishmen was at it again.

Much to Lady Winterwood's horror, the following morning, Hero and Erik called quits to the party. The morning dawned cold and a slight mist was lifting off the lowlands, sweeping towards the front façade of the manor house. It was still a few hours before the guests were to wake, some to depart and others to bid them farewell. The silence was broken by the sound of hoof beats and the racket of the Winterood brougham making down the long drive of the estate. The commotion woke the house and many guests came to their windows to observe the chaos. Christine de Chagny was glad to be inside the brougham, behind a fine curtain and well out of sight.

Hero, who suddenly felt much better at the prospect of all sorts of unreasonable danger heading their way, grinned widely at her friends as the morning air chilled her face. She was astride one of the accompanying horses, though the fact was disguised from the curious observers by the masculine apparel she wore, complete with top hat.

Andrew was rather put out with Hero on account of having to leave his darling Marguerite early, with no-one for company. If she were displeased in learning of his sudden departure in the dawn hours, she did not show it, however, and looked much cheered when he promised to write as soon as he was able. She spoke to Germaine and they decided to depart also, with some of the guests, stopping to take in a bit of the sights of London.

Hero knew well how to make an exit and many swore that the Winterwood girls were surely ruined after such an insolent display. Lady Winterwood watched the departing company from her bedroom balcony, more apt at recognising her daughter dressed so appallingly. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line and her face pale, save for the outrage pinking her cheeks. Such impropriety was unheard of. Hero Winterwood never did anything by halves, and the guests concluded that it was the most entertaining soiree they'd been to in countless seasons. Lord Winterwood stood next to his wife, looking resigned.

Despite her daughter's appalling behaviour, Moira managed remarkably well to keep face in public while ranting at her husband in private. She had many reasons to be displeased, as she watched marriage prospects dashed to bits. Surely it was just a matter of time before the suits offered to both her daughters were withdrawn. Her mind racing, she wondered what excuse she might invent for such a breach of etiquette.

OOO

Hero stood on the edge of the London docks, dressed in a worn dark green dress and heavy black woollen cloak. Her cowl was raised against the cool wind blowing off the water. A continuous drizzle fell from the sky. She contentedly took in the busy docks around her. The little group stood still while dock workers, porters and passengers bustles around them. It was a busy morning, with five ships docking at once and three departing. There were many vessels anchoring at the docks. There were barges that would go up and down the Thames and many little fishing boats that would go out to sea. There was a large frigate and luxurious new steamships. The steam boat they were to take in two hours was the very last of the docked vessels and it looked less than sail-worthy.

Andrew, who stood next to Hero, was remarking on the prudence of purchasing their own ship.

"…It would be much more convenient than having to always barter our way across."

"Oh, certainly. We could call it _'The Brazen Wench'_ or the…" Dominic listed potential names, each more risqué than the next, while his friends laughed.

Erik, who stood a distance away from the group, divided his attention between the _Helena_, the questionable-looking vessels they would be taking across the channel, and the bantering friends. He certainly had his doubts regarding the _Helena_, which looked worse than the ferry they had taken on the crossing to England, but Hero had insisted.

"You are certain of the vessel?" Erik asked Hero, when she had come to stand by him a while later. The merry glitter in her eyes was unsettling. She hooked her arm through his.

"Oh, yes. Captain Smythe is an old…associate of Aidan's. We have made use of his services for years." The chipper note in her voice made the Phantom wary. Or perhaps it was the warmth of her arm next to his.

"Associate?"

"Friend. You'd rather not be party to the details."

"I see."

Blue eyes flashed with annoyance, before Christine separated herself from the English gentlemen and approached her former Angel. The sight of him, so tall and poised, made her uneasy.

"I see you are of the same mind as I, Angel, regarding our means of transportation." She smiled sweetly at the Phantom, "though mademoiselle Winterwood may be quite in the habit of travelling by dingy fish boat."

Erik started at the smile. Christine had never been in the habit of smiling at him.

Hero did not spare her a glance, opting instead to adjust one of her gloves, her arm still pointedly linked with Erik's, "There is a lovely cruise boat setting sail for the Riviera later today, Comtesse. Perhaps you'd like to be on that one instead?"

Sniffing indignantly, Madame de Chagny chose not to reply, though her cornflower eyes stayed on her former teacher and his flashed to hers uncertainly. Biting her tongue Christine thought of her poor Raoul, and how glad she would be to set eyes on him again. She would also to glad to be away from the miserable island they were on- nothing but rain and fog. Christine hated rain.

OOO

The _Helena_ was making good time down the river, and was not quite as bad as Erik had expected, if one did not count the occasional sputtering noise which made the Captain chuckle fondly. Hero did not seem bothered at all, as she sat baiting Erik.

"…to close my eyes and think of England? I never was the sort of woman for that." Hero said, eyes glittering a bit wistfully, remembering many arguments with her mother over the very thing. She was absently paging through a book on Persian customs while the ship swayed in motion underfoot. The captain had promised to have them down the Thames and across to France in six hours, much faster than any of official barges could do, and this made Hero remarkably cheerful.

"To think of England?" The Phantom asked, raising a mocking eyebrow under his mask. They were in a cabin kindly provided by the captain and apart from Dominic asleep on the captain's settee, the rest of their companions were up on deck, enjoying the crisp air now that the rain had lifted. Hero and Erik had ended up arguing over the sleeping arrangements on the journey. The former Ghost was convinced that the girl was set on pushing him beyond endurance. Did she not understand he might decide to kill her in the night? Hero pointed out that he had not done so as yet, so reasonably her chances of survival were quite good. Her eyes had laughed at him as she asked whether he was concerned with ruining her marriage prospects, successfully changing the topic.

Hero's lips curled in amusement at the question, though her eyes still looked a bit wistful round the edges. "To close my eyes." She thought of her mother, no doubt mourning her elder daughter's reputation after her latest jaunt.

Before Erik could reply, there was the sound of a scuffle and a hurried knock on the door. Eyes flying to Erik, whose thin frame was suddenly tense, she set aside the book she'd been holding. Hero called for the door to be opened.

A member of the crew, a broad man called Harrison, stood in the doorway. One of his large hands was clutching what had to be the elbow of a much smaller figure, cloaked and hooded. The figure was female, the satin skirt of an expensive silk gown peeked from under the cloak.

"We found this one down with the crates. One o' yours, Miss Winterwood?"

Hero rather doubted it was. Her companions, with the notable exception of Christine de Chagny, were all male. So unless one of her friends had taken to wearing ladies' garments… Hero voiced this sentiment dryly. The pair regarded the newcomer with curious eyes as the woman slowly removed her cowl. Hero raised an eyebrow, though her eyes flashed with surprise and annoyance. Erik's wariness dissolved to impassivity.

Dominic chose that moment to wake up.

"Hero? Where the deuce did your sister come from?" The girl in question winced at the crude words, then stared petulantly back at her sister.

"The storage deck, if you'll believe it." Harrison replied wryly, releasing the girl.

"The sto-" The gentleman began as he sat up on the settee, looking slightly ruffled, only to be interrupted by Hero.

"You ran from home in a satin cape and frock? A clever move, no doubt. Mother will be beside herself. And what are we to do with you now? There is no turning the boat around!" The elder girl snapped.

"No, there isn't." Lavenna agreed, recovering some poise in spite of her dishevelled appearance. Hero sighed, looking pained.

"Then I take it you do not wish us to lock up the stowaway?" The sailor commented, folding his arms across his chest, his red beard hiding his amusement. Out at sea, the matter of ladies and propriety was not a very important one.

"No, thank you, Harrison. At least not yet." The girl replied, eyeing her sister.

Harrison nodded, "I'd best be going back on deck then." With a nod at the company, he left the cabin.

"You cannot send me back, and so I am staying." Lavenna announced.

"Torin will certainly be glad of that." Dom commented dryly, while Hero snorted. The younger girl blushed, but continued speaking.

"And it's only right that I should stay. How is it fair that Hero can run around the country, unchaperoned and so _disgracefully_ dressed, and I am to remain at home concerning myself with needlepoint and dance cards? No. That will not do."

While Hero was away from home, she had done a lot of reading, some of it by sneaking books out of her father's private library. In the privacy of her own room, Lavenna had come to several conclusions. Especially given that her mother had begun to speak of marriage. She was not done living yet, and she was done reading about adventure from dusty tomes. Having been paying extra attention to Hero and her odd friends, and strategically eavesdropping whenever she could, she had begun formulating a plan on how to achieve just what she wanted. Unfortunately, her sister was ridiculously unpredictable, thus pushing Lavenna to her desperate flight. She'd left a very short note for her parents on her dressing table. There would be much trouble for it later, but she was here now and she would not allow herself to be sent back.

The friends regarded the girl in silence, exchanging unspoken communication. Hero smiled thinly at her Lavenna's stubbornly set face. They were in a hurry and could not afford to return. Nor could they send Lavenna back on her own. "Very well then, sister. It seems there is little for us to do but to take you along. But our destination promises to be a dangerous one, and I suggest you bear in mind that there will be no governess to watch your every move."

Lavenna's face showed her astonishment at Hero's words, and she wondered what her sister was planning. It was quite a long time since the two of them had been close and she found she knew very little of Hero. Dominic raised an eyebrow at the girl, but he too knew there was little else they could do.

"Hero-" Andrew began a half hour later, when everyone had gathered in the captain's cabin for what promised at be a very interesting conversation. He was eyeing Lavenna sceptically.

Christine watched the debate from a faded old armchair, while sipping too-strong tea from a chipped teacup. She lifted the cup to hide her own amused smile at the debate.

"What will you have us do, Darnell?" Torrin asked a bit heatedly, earning himself surprised looks from the others. "We cannot compromise Miss Lavenna by sending her back unaccompanied!" Erik noted interestedly how his eyes shifted to meet Lavenna's blue ones.

"Gentlemen," Aidan interrupted. "I do not see the point of this argument. As has already been established, Lavenna is here to stay. I, personally, think that running from home and stowing away on a smuggler vessel was a very foolish thing to do. But it is done now, and there is no sense in dwelling on it."

"Smugglers?" Lavenna interrupted, her eyes flying to her sister's annoyed face. "You mean to say this is a _pirate _boat?"

No one's grim mood could withstand that pronouncement. Hero snorted inelegantly, while there were a few other chuckles around the room.

"Hardly." The thief replied, trading amused glances with her friends. "They meddle in a bit of smuggling, my dear. This does not immediately translate to a propensity for tight breeches, billowing shirts and kidnapping susceptible young ladies of quality, only to be tamed by the purity of their love." This was followed by much less muffled round of laughter and the younger Winterwood girl blushed.

"There is nothing wrong with reading novels appropriate for young ladies!" She defended herself, wondering how Hero knew that she had been secretly buying bodice rippers from the nice elderly book dealer in town.

"No indeed," the Comtesse agreed from her chair. Amusement glittered in Hero's eyes.

"Oh? Well, I am glad that you and my sister are of such like mind, Comtesse," Hero said, voice heavy with irony. "Now, as to the next stage of our journey, we will dock at Callais, and a good thing too, for we shall have to procure Venna some more appropriate apparel. But now, I think, it must be almost time for the luncheon the good captain promised us."

OOO

Erik was asleep. It was a rare, unsettling occurrence, and one he generally preferred to forego. In his dreams, if such they could be called, the Opera was a sad sight. Burnt and decrepit. The delicate mouldings and filigree coated with dust and spider webs. The halls were silent, empty and no piano sounded in the rehearsal rooms. He was alone in the darkness and dilapidation he had wrought. His darkness, his old friend and comforter. It was cold, he knew, and he felt the chill to his very bones. He dreamed of eyes, silvery in the gloom, compelling and daring, and he was no longer so very cold. Erik almost felt a warmth brush his left hand and a voice called his name softly.

Erik jerked instantly awake, defensive and tense, flashing eyes searching the cabin, his lasso in his hands.

The silence of the cabin greeted him, broken by the creaking of the ship and the sound of footsteps and voices up on deck. The others had all gone up what had to be hours ago and he estimated that it had to be around two in the afternoon. Grey light filtered from a small port window and he concluded that it had to still be overcast. Yellow eyes scanned the cabin only to alight on a scuffed writing desk, otherwise bare except for a few scraps of paper, a pen and a pot of watery, cheap ink. With agile fingers he dug in a pocket of his overcoat and produced a worn-looking book. Closing his eyes momentarily, he could already feel the music pulsing through his head, the motifs, the harmonic progressions…a string quartet, he thought. Lighting a candle with feverish fingers, he crossed the room in a single stride and opened his sketchbook, glancing absently at the piano sonata he had last sketched out. He had used a lot of dissonance in it, not quite as lightly as was generally accepted by publishers, but this was nothing to Erik. He did not compose to please the gauche masses. Flipping the page, he dipped the pen in ink, not bothering to find his own, and began to write.

Up on deck Hero stood by herself absently listening to her friends' laughter near by, staring out over the water, her face set in determination as she plotted what was to come.

Sure that no-one was watching her, shifting slightly so that her heavy cloak no longer covered her arms, she revealed a box. It was carved and decorated. And yet on the surface it did not live up to its name. _Life and Death_ Erik called it, but then he could be more than a bit melodramatic sometimes.

Hero did not doubt that is could lead to death, of course, and it was the very principle of the thing she disliked. She had seen Erik in one of his deliriums and the bruises on his arm and she had no wish to see him succumb to the morphine.

It was a pity to be rid of the pretty box as well, but Hero liked symbolism and sneaking it out had been difficult enough without having to sneak it back in. So, without much deliberation or the slightest tinge of guilt, Hero tipped the box overboard, and smiled with satisfaction when she heard it splash into the deep, dark waters. No one seemed to notice and so she returned to her thoughts.

She wondered what they would do once they got to Persia. She'd never been to Persia, and that gave terrain advantage to whomever it was that they would have to face. She was too much an old hand in the adventure business to think that there was no such entity. A memory of the strange man in the Paris alley came back to her, and she frowned, pondering. She remembered that he said something about circumstances that would change her mind, which would imply that he and whomever he represented had been watching her for some time. Quite possibly those same people were somehow involved in the disappearance of Dantes and de Chagny. And de Chance, she reminded herself, one would have to very wily indeed to out-manoeuvre de Chance. She did not like unknown parties having any sort of advantage over her and yet she knew that at present there was nothing she could do about it. The man had also said something about their meeting again, however, and she had every intention of being prepared.

She heard the rustle of fashionably starched skirts coming to rest near her.

"I am married." The blonde said quietly, as if continuing a conversation they'd been having for some time. She did not bother to look at Hero. Her voice was smug. Hero raised an eyebrow without turning her head, "I am married, and we will find my husband. And I shall be a mother, too. And I shall be content the rest of my days. What can you say for yourself, Mademoiselle? Can you say the same?"

Hero showed no sign of her puzzlement at Christine's words.

"I can say that I _am_ content. I can say that my life won't be a prison cell of my own making." Hero's voice was cool. She stood a distance away from the former soprano, eyes still drifting over the dark murky water.

Christine's laugh was clear and a little cruel. "Will you marry? It is your duty. Tell me, have you thought on it? Will it be Erik whom you would marry? Supposing your _mamman_ forgives him his lack of title. Oh, what a happy union that would be. I do not think you wish to remain a spinster and I daresay there's not much time, and so marry you must. And after, will you have children? You and dear Erik. Will you have children? Tall, brilliant children they would be, Mademoiselle. Yes, I am well aware of that. For how can they be otherwise? Tall, brilliant, with faces like Death. With music in their veins and blood-lust in their eyes."

Hero's expression was thoughtful now; something about Christine's words, her whole bearing, was niggling her.

"_My_ children will go for walks in the park. They will attend parties. They will have hair of gold and eyes like the sky, just like their father's. Where will yours walk, do you think?"

She looked at the Comtesse at last, watching her grapping with reality and her pretty dreams, clinging desperately to what she might not even get to have and shoving away any thoughts of what she could have had. Hero watched her for a long, quiet minute. She thought about what is must have been like, to give up a career as an operatic virtuoso admired by all of Paris and be a count's wife instead. She could only suppose the things running through Christine's mind now that_ that_ future had come to be uncertain. Of course, she had heard all about the amazing Christine Daae at the Opera, and it had never occurred to her to wonder why the soprano used to sing at all. Whether she had done it for herself, or her dead father or because a voice in the night had compelled her to. Hero wondered how, if she'd done it for herself, Christine had given it all up. Hero would have safely bet that Christine was asking herself these self-same questions just then and that she hated herself for it. And quite despite herself, Hero found that she pitied her.

"I am content, Madame. I do not seek what_ I_ already have. And I will remain so, because you see, I know what I want." Her words did not hold the sting they might have done. Even as a chorus girl, Christine had always been cooped up in her tiny world, first at the Conservatoire, then at the Opera and Hero could only imagine what it took for her to set out for Persia.

Neither woman commented on the sudden lack of venom in her words. Down below deck, some off-duty sailors began a song, accompanied by the sporadic strumming of a guitar. For the last hour of their journey, Hero and Christine mulled over their thoughts in a silence that couldn't quite be called companionable.

OOO

Far away from the little ship, in a gilded room of a fine palace on the outskirts of Mazendaran, a rather tense conversation was taking place.

"She will not come, then?" The cultured voice drawled in elegant, if accented, English. Signor Vincenzo spoke passable Arabic, but that was a fact he chose to keep to himself. And since the merchant Omar al Walid spoke no Italian, they'd compromised on English.

"She said that she would not," Informed the low, displeased voice of al Walid. "That she has nothing to do with assassinations. According to Monsieur Dreyer, she was not very polite about it, either." He held up the letter as proof of what he was saying before handing it to his secretary, a tall man named Khazim, who scanned over it.

Vincenzo chuckled, the sound reverberating though the vast, richly appointed room. "Yes, it does sound like something she might say. Well, gentlemen. A pity. And a significant addition to my fee, I might add." With that he shot a cold, polite smile and a pointed look at al Walid, who had been speaking from a lavish divan, on which he was lounging with all the insolence of the Shah-in-Shah.

Al Walid exhaled a mouthful of scented smoke before speaking with equal terseness. "So it is, though you have been offered your fee in solid gold."

"There is such a thing as an excess of gold, my friend. And the Daroga is so very well guarded. " Vincenzo replied, with a rather insolent look at what he perceived to be a rather over-decorated room. He didn't think he'd ever get accustomed to Eastern aesthetics. Or perhaps it was just al Walid.

"Then perhaps you might still get your young lady, Signor." Khazim interrupted before the polite veneer was destroyed.

"How so?"

"Ah, but Monsieur Dreyer, whose return we anticipate any day now, put a tail on your Miss Winterwood. He reports that she has set sail from England post haste. And, as luck would have it, her companions were overheard mentioning Mazendaran."

"Then perhaps we may be able to work something out after all." The Italian observed.

"Yes. Wine?" Offered al Walid.

Down in the bowels of the palace, the atmosphere was much bleaker.

Three figures languished in a small, dank cell, the Comte de Chagny among them. It was dark. He could hardly breathe. Raoul could feel the sand clinging to his skin and hair. But out of the many indignities they had had to suffer the night they were snatched up in France, the sun had been by far the worst. It was so bright and hot that he could feel his roots drying and fading, his skin burning to an unsightly, painful red. Raoul sighed. At least they'd stopped grabbing his hair to pull his head back and shout questions at him in a language he didn't understand. He didn't think his nerves could handle much more.

He still had no idea what was going on or why he had been taken, apart from what he could glean from the abrupt conversations of his two business partners, who seemed much more inclined to talk now that they were left alone. He worried about his little Christine, all alone in France, wondering what had happened to him. The thought brought tears to his eyes. He was rather surprised at how dangerous importing Persian curios had turned out to be. He'd been certain that all and any adventure was well behind him when he opted not to sail to the North Pole. And de Chance swore it was both safe and lucrative.

"He cannot move until he has the papers. And he has no way of getting them if we are dead," said the Comte de Chance, who was a handsome and rather elegant figure in Parisian society. He looked much more bedraggled now that he usually did, but still somehow suave.

Dantes, Raoul's other associate sat with a much more unsettled expression on his face. His brow was pinched in worry. "That is assuming he will not resort to more…sordid ways of making us talk." Dantes had a tendency towards glumness.

De Chance laughed, a strange sound in their current predicament. "What pessimism! My dear Dantes! I daresay our Persian friend would like nothing more than to resort to those very means. Alas that he cannot. You see, I am not so much of a fool as to fail in foreseeing just such a circumstance. Should he not release us, then even if he finds the documents he searches for, some more incriminating evidence will be delivered straight to the Daroga and the Shah-in-Shah himself."

Raoul interrupted before Dantes could reply. He was annoyed at obviously being kept in the dark. "Gentlemen! If you would be so kind, what exactly is going on? Who are these men? Why are we here?"

"Ah, well, you see, Comte…" de Chance began, still amused.

10


End file.
